"Rilla of Ingleside\n\n\nby\n\nLucy Maud Montgomery\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n I GLEN \"NOTES\" AND OTHER MATTERS\n II DEW OF MORNING\n III MOONLIT MIRTH\n IV THE PIPER PIPES\n V \"THE SOUND OF A GOING\"\n VI SUSAN, RILLA, AND DOG MONDAY MAKE A RESOLUTION\n VII A WAR-BABY AND A SOUP TUREEN\n VIII RILLA DECIDES\n IX DOC HAS A MISADVENTURE\n X THE TROUBLES OF RILLA\n XI DARK AND BRIGHT\n XII IN THE DAYS OF LANGEMARCK\n XIII A SLICE OF HUMBLE PIE\n XIV THE VALLEY OF DECISION\n XV UNTIL THE DAY BREAK\n XVI REALISM AND ROMANCE\n XVII THE WEEKS WEAR BY\n XVIII A WAR-WEDDING\n XIX \"THEY SHALL NOT PASS\"\n XX NORMAN DOUGLAS SPEAKS OUT IN MEETING\n XXI \"LOVE AFFAIRS ARE HORRIBLE\"\n XXII LITTLE DOG MONDAY KNOWS\n XXIII \"AND SO, GOODNIGHT\"\n XXIV MARY IS JUST IN TIME\n XXV SHIRLEY GOES\n XXVI SUSAN HAS A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE\n XXVII WAITING\n XXVIII BLACK SUNDAY\n XXIX \"WOUNDED AND MISSING\"\n XXX THE TURNING OF THE TIDE\n XXXI MRS. MATILDA PITTMAN\n XXXII WORD FROM JEM\n XXXIII VICTORY!\n XXXIV MR. HYDE GOES TO HIS OWN PLACE AND SUSAN TAKES A HONEYMOON\n XXXV \"RILLA-MY-RILLA!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nGLEN \"NOTES\" AND OTHER MATTERS\n\nIt was a warm, golden-cloudy, lovable afternoon. In the big living-room\nat Ingleside Susan Baker sat down with a certain grim satisfaction\nhovering about her like an aura; it was four o'clock and Susan, who had\nbeen working incessantly since six that morning, felt that she had\nfairly earned an hour of repose and gossip. Susan just then was\nperfectly happy; everything had gone almost uncannily well in the\nkitchen that day. Dr. Jekyll had not been Mr. Hyde and so had not\ngrated on her nerves; from where she sat she could see the pride of her\nheart--the bed of peonies of her own planting and culture, blooming as\nno other peony plot in Glen St. Mary ever did or could bloom, with\npeonies crimson, peonies silvery pink, peonies white as drifts of\nwinter snow.\n\nSusan had on a new black silk blouse, quite as elaborate as anything\nMrs. Marshall Elliott ever wore, and a white starched apron, trimmed\nwith complicated crocheted lace fully five inches wide, not to mention\ninsertion to match. Therefore Susan had all the comfortable\nconsciousness of a well-dressed woman as she opened her copy of the\nDaily Enterprise and prepared to read the Glen \"Notes\" which, as Miss\nCornelia had just informed her, filled half a column of it and\nmentioned almost everybody at Ingleside. There was a big, black\nheadline on the front page of the Enterprise, stating that some\nArchduke Ferdinand or other had been assassinated at a place bearing\nthe weird name of Sarajevo, but Susan tarried not over uninteresting,\nimmaterial stuff like that; she was in quest of something really vital.\nOh, here it was--\"Jottings from Glen St. Mary.\" Susan settled down\nkeenly, reading each one over aloud to extract all possible\ngratification from it.\n\nMrs. Blythe and her visitor, Miss Cornelia--alias Mrs. Marshall\nElliott--were chatting together near the open door that led to the\nveranda, through which a cool, delicious breeze was blowing, bringing\nwhiffs of phantom perfume from the garden, and charming gay echoes from\nthe vine-hung corner where Rilla and Miss Oliver and Walter were\nlaughing and talking. Wherever Rilla Blythe was, there was laughter.\n\nThere was another occupant of the living-room, curled up on a couch,\nwho must not be overlooked, since he was a creature of marked\nindividuality, and, moreover, had the distinction of being the only\nliving thing whom Susan really hated.\n\nAll cats are mysterious but Dr. Jekyll-and-Mr. Hyde--\"Doc\" for\nshort--was trebly so. He was a cat of double personality--or else, as\nSusan vowed, he was possessed by the devil. To begin with, there had\nbeen something uncanny about the very dawn of his existence. Four years\npreviously Rilla Blythe had had a treasured darling of a kitten, white\nas snow, with a saucy black tip to its tail, which she called Jack\nFrost. Susan disliked Jack Frost, though she could not or would not\ngive any valid reason therefor.\n\n\"Take my word for it, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" she was wont to say ominously,\n\"that cat will come to no good.\"\n\n\"But why do you think so?\" Mrs. Blythe would ask.\n\n\"I do not think--I know,\" was all the answer Susan would vouchsafe.\n\nWith the rest of the Ingleside folk Jack Frost was a favourite; he was\nso very clean and well groomed, and never allowed a spot or stain to be\nseen on his beautiful white suit; he had endearing ways of purring and\nsnuggling; he was scrupulously honest.\n\nAnd then a domestic tragedy took place at Ingleside. Jack Frost had\nkittens!\n\nIt would be vain to try to picture Susan's triumph. Had she not always\ninsisted that that cat would turn out to be a delusion and a snare? Now\nthey could see for themselves!\n\nRilla kept one of the kittens, a very pretty one, with peculiarly sleek\nglossy fur of a dark yellow crossed by orange stripes, and large,\nsatiny, golden ears. She called it Goldie and the name seemed\nappropriate enough to the little frolicsome creature which, during its\nkittenhood, gave no indication of the sinister nature it really\npossessed. Susan, of course, warned the family that no good could be\nexpected from any offspring of that diabolical Jack Frost; but Susan's\nCassandra-like croakings were unheeded.\n\nThe Blythes had been so accustomed to regard Jack Frost as a member of\nthe male sex that they could not get out of the habit. So they\ncontinually used the masculine pronoun, although the result was\nludicrous. Visitors used to be quite electrified when Rilla referred\ncasually to \"Jack and his kitten,\" or told Goldie sternly, \"Go to your\nmother and get him to wash your fur.\"\n\n\"It is not decent, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" poor Susan would say bitterly. She\nherself compromised by always referring to Jack as \"it\" or \"the white\nbeast,\" and one heart at least did not ache when \"it\" was accidentally\npoisoned the following winter.\n\nIn a year's time \"Goldie\" became so manifestly an inadequate name for\nthe orange kitten that Walter, who was just then reading Stevenson's\nstory, changed it to Dr. Jekyll-and-Mr. Hyde. In his Dr. Jekyll mood\nthe cat was a drowsy, affectionate, domestic, cushion-loving puss, who\nliked petting and gloried in being nursed and patted. Especially did he\nlove to lie on his back and have his sleek, cream-coloured throat\nstroked gently while he purred in somnolent satisfaction. He was a\nnotable purrer; never had there been an Ingleside cat who purred so\nconstantly and so ecstatically.\n\n\"The only thing I envy a cat is its purr,\" remarked Dr. Blythe once,\nlistening to Doc's resonant melody. \"It is the most contented sound in\nthe world.\"\n\nDoc was very handsome; his every movement was grace; his poses\nmagnificent. When he folded his long, dusky-ringed tail about his feet\nand sat him down on the veranda to gaze steadily into space for long\nintervals the Blythes felt that an Egyptian sphinx could not have made\na more fitting Deity of the Portal.\n\nWhen the Mr. Hyde mood came upon him--which it invariably did before\nrain, or wind--he was a wild thing with changed eyes. The\ntransformation always came suddenly. He would spring fiercely from a\nreverie with a savage snarl and bite at any restraining or caressing\nhand. His fur seemed to grow darker and his eyes gleamed with a\ndiabolical light. There was really an unearthly beauty about him. If\nthe change happened in the twilight all the Ingleside folk felt a\ncertain terror of him. At such times he was a fearsome beast and only\nRilla defended him, asserting that he was \"such a nice prowly cat.\"\nCertainly he prowled.\n\nDr. Jekyll loved new milk; Mr. Hyde would not touch milk and growled\nover his meat. Dr. Jekyll came down the stairs so silently that no one\ncould hear him. Mr. Hyde made his tread as heavy as a man's. Several\nevenings, when Susan was alone in the house, he \"scared her stiff,\" as\nshe declared, by doing this. He would sit in the middle of the kitchen\nfloor, with his terrible eyes fixed unwinkingly upon hers for an hour\nat a time. This played havoc with her nerves, but poor Susan really\nheld him in too much awe to try to drive him out. Once she had dared to\nthrow a stick at him and he had promptly made a savage leap towards\nher. Susan rushed out of doors and never attempted to meddle with Mr.\nHyde again--though she visited his misdeeds upon the innocent Dr.\nJekyll, chasing him ignominiously out of her domain whenever he dared\nto poke his nose in and denying him certain savoury tidbits for which\nhe yearned.\n\n\"'The many friends of Miss Faith Meredith, Gerald Meredith and James\nBlythe,'\" read Susan, rolling the names like sweet morsels under her\ntongue, \"'were very much pleased to welcome them home a few weeks ago\nfrom Redmond College. James Blythe, who was graduated in Arts in 1913,\nhad just completed his first year in medicine.'\"\n\n\"Faith Meredith has really got to be the most handsomest creature I\never saw,\" commented Miss Cornelia above her filet crochet. \"It's\namazing how those children came on after Rosemary West went to the\nmanse. People have almost forgotten what imps of mischief they were\nonce. Anne, dearie, will you ever forget the way they used to carry on?\nIt's really surprising how well Rosemary got on with them. She's more\nlike a chum than a step-mother. They all love her and Una adores her.\nAs for that little Bruce, Una just makes a perfect slave of herself to\nhim. Of course, he is a darling. But did you ever see any child look as\nmuch like an aunt as he looks like his Aunt Ellen? He's just as dark\nand just as emphatic. I can't see a feature of Rosemary in him. Norman\nDouglas always vows at the top of his voice that the stork meant Bruce\nfor him and Ellen and took him to the manse by mistake.\"\n\n\"Bruce adores Jem,\" said Mrs Blythe. \"When he comes over here he\nfollows Jem about silently like a faithful little dog, looking up at\nhim from under his black brows. He would do anything for Jem, I verily\nbelieve.\"\n\n\"Are Jem and Faith going to make a match of it?\"\n\nMrs. Blythe smiled. It was well known that Miss Cornelia, who had been\nsuch a virulent man-hater at one time, had actually taken to\nmatch-making in her declining years.\n\n\"They are only good friends yet, Miss Cornelia.\"\n\n\"Very good friends, believe me,\" said Miss Cornelia emphatically. \"I\nhear all about the doings of the young fry.\"\n\n\"I have no doubt that Mary Vance sees that you do, Mrs. Marshall\nElliott,\" said Susan significantly, \"but I think it is a shame to talk\nabout children making matches.\"\n\n\"Children! Jem is twenty-one and Faith is nineteen,\" retorted Miss\nCornelia. \"You must not forget, Susan, that we old folks are not the\nonly grown-up people in the world.\"\n\nOutraged Susan, who detested any reference to her age--not from vanity\nbut from a haunting dread that people might come to think her too old\nto work--returned to her \"Notes.\"\n\n\"'Carl Meredith and Shirley Blythe came home last Friday evening from\nQueen's Academy. We understand that Carl will be in charge of the\nschool at Harbour Head next year and we are sure he will be a popular\nand successful teacher.'\"\n\n\"He will teach the children all there is to know about bugs, anyhow,\"\nsaid Miss Cornelia. \"He is through with Queen's now and Mr. Meredith\nand Rosemary wanted him to go right on to Redmond in the fall, but Carl\nhas a very independent streak in him and means to earn part of his own\nway through college. He'll be all the better for it.\"\n\n\"'Walter Blythe, who has been teaching for the past two years at\nLowbridge, has resigned,'\" read Susan. \"'He intends going to Redmond\nthis fall.'\"\n\n\"Is Walter quite strong enough for Redmond yet?\" queried Miss Cornelia\nanxiously.\n\n\"We hope that he will be by the fall,\" said Mrs. Blythe. \"An idle\nsummer in the open air and sunshine will do a great deal for him.\"\n\n\"Typhoid is a hard thing to get over,\" said Miss Cornelia emphatically,\n\"especially when one has had such a close shave as Walter had. I think\nhe'd do well to stay out of college another year. But then he's so\nambitious. Are Di and Nan going too?\"\n\n\"Yes. They both wanted to teach another year but Gilbert thinks they\nhad better go to Redmond this fall.\"\n\n\"I'm glad of that. They'll keep an eye on Walter and see that he\ndoesn't study too hard. I suppose,\" continued Miss Cornelia, with a\nside glance at Susan, \"that after the snub I got a few minutes ago it\nwill not be safe for me to suggest that Jerry Meredith is making\nsheep's eyes at Nan.\"\n\nSusan ignored this and Mrs. Blythe laughed again.\n\n\"Dear Miss Cornelia, I have my hands full, haven't I?--with all these\nboys and girls sweethearting around me? If I took it seriously it would\nquite crush me. But I don't--it is too hard yet to realize that they're\ngrown up. When I look at those two tall sons of mine I wonder if they\ncan possibly be the fat, sweet, dimpled babies I kissed and cuddled and\nsang to slumber the other day--only the other day, Miss Cornelia.\nWasn't Jem the dearest baby in the old House of Dreams? and now he's a\nB.A. and accused of courting.\"\n\n\"We're all growing older,\" sighed Miss Cornelia.\n\n\"The only part of me that feels old,\" said Mrs. Blythe, \"is the ankle I\nbroke when Josie Pye dared me to walk the Barry ridge-pole in the Green\nGables days. I have an ache in it when the wind is east. I won't admit\nthat it is rheumatism, but it does ache. As for the children, they and\nthe Merediths are planning a gay summer before they have to go back to\nstudies in the fall. They are such a fun-loving little crowd. They keep\nthis house in a perpetual whirl of merriment.\"\n\n\"Is Rilla going to Queen's when Shirley goes back?\"\n\n\"It isn't decided yet. I rather fancy not. Her father thinks she is not\nquite strong enough--she has rather outgrown her strength--she's really\nabsurdly tall for a girl not yet fifteen. I am not anxious to have her\ngo--why, it would be terrible not to have a single one of my babies\nhome with me next winter. Susan and I would fall to fighting with each\nother to break the monotony.\"\n\nSusan smiled at this pleasantry. The idea of her fighting with \"Mrs.\nDr. dear!\"\n\n\"Does Rilla herself want to go?\" asked Miss Cornelia.\n\n\"No. The truth is, Rilla is the only one of my flock who isn't\nambitious. I really wish she had a little more ambition. She has no\nserious ideals at all--her sole aspiration seems to be to have a good\ntime.\"\n\n\"And why should she not have it, Mrs. Dr. dear?\" cried Susan, who could\nnot bear to hear a single word against anyone of the Ingleside folk,\neven from one of themselves. \"A young girl should have a good time, and\nthat I will maintain. There will be time enough for her to think of\nLatin and Greek.\"\n\n\"I should like to see a little sense of responsibility in her, Susan.\nAnd you know yourself that she is abominably vain.\"\n\n\"She has something to be vain about,\" retorted Susan. \"She is the\nprettiest girl in Glen St. Mary. Do you think that all those\nover-harbour MacAllisters and Crawfords and Elliotts could scare up a\nskin like Rilla's in four generations? They could not. No, Mrs. Dr.\ndear, I know my place but I cannot allow you to run down Rilla. Listen\nto this, Mrs. Marshall Elliott.\"\n\nSusan had found a chance to get square with Miss Cornelia for her digs\nat the children's love affairs. She read the item with gusto.\n\n\"'Miller Douglas has decided not to go West. He says old P.E.I. is good\nenough for him and he will continue to farm for his aunt, Mrs. Alec\nDavis.'\"\n\nSusan looked keenly at Miss Cornelia.\n\n\"I have heard, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, that Miller is courting Mary\nVance.\"\n\nThis shot pierced Miss Cornelia's armour. Her sonsy face flushed.\n\n\"I won't have Miller Douglas hanging round Mary,\" she said crisply. \"He\ncomes of a low family. His father was a sort of outcast from the\nDouglases--they never really counted him in--and his mother was one of\nthose terrible Dillons from the Harbour Head.\"\n\n\"I think I have heard, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, that Mary Vance's own\nparents were not what you could call aristocratic.\"\n\n\"Mary Vance has had a good bringing up and she is a smart, clever,\ncapable girl,\" retorted Miss Cornelia. \"She is not going to throw\nherself away on Miller Douglas, believe me! She knows my opinion on the\nmatter and Mary has never disobeyed me yet.\"\n\n\"Well, I do not think you need worry, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, for Mrs.\nAlec Davis is as much against it as you could be, and says no nephew of\nhers is ever going to marry a nameless nobody like Mary Vance.\"\n\nSusan returned to her mutton, feeling that she had got the best of it\nin this passage of arms, and read another \"note.\"\n\n\"'We are pleased to hear that Miss Oliver has been engaged as teacher\nfor another year. Miss Oliver will spend her well-earned vacation at\nher home in Lowbridge.'\"\n\n\"I'm so glad Gertrude is going to stay,\" said Mrs. Blythe. \"We would\nmiss her horribly. And she has an excellent influence over Rilla who\nworships her. They are chums, in spite of the difference in their ages.\"\n\n\"I thought I heard she was going to be married?\"\n\n\"I believe it was talked of but I understand it is postponed for a\nyear.\"\n\n\"Who is the young man?\"\n\n\"Robert Grant. He is a young lawyer in Charlottetown. I hope Gertrude\nwill be happy. She has had a sad life, with much bitterness in it, and\nshe feels things with a terrible keenness. Her first youth is gone and\nshe is practically alone in the world. This new love that has come into\nher life seems such a wonderful thing to her that I think she hardly\ndares believe in its permanence. When her marriage had to be put off\nshe was quite in despair--though it certainly wasn't Mr. Grant's fault.\nThere were complications in the settlement of his father's estate--his\nfather died last winter--and he could not marry till the tangles were\nunravelled. But I think Gertrude felt it was a bad omen and that her\nhappiness would somehow elude her yet.\"\n\n\"It does not do, Mrs. Dr. dear, to set your affections too much on a\nman,\" remarked Susan solemnly.\n\n\"Mr. Grant is quite as much in love with Gertrude as she is with him,\nSusan. It is not he whom she distrusts--it is fate. She has a little\nmystic streak in her--I suppose some people would call her\nsuperstitious. She has an odd belief in dreams and we have not been\nable to laugh it out of her. I must own, too, that some of her\ndreams--but there, it would not do to let Gilbert hear me hinting such\nheresy. What have you found of much interest, Susan?\"\n\nSusan had given an exclamation.\n\n\"Listen to this, Mrs. Dr. dear. 'Mrs. Sophia Crawford has given up her\nhouse at Lowbridge and will make her home in future with her niece,\nMrs. Albert Crawford.' Why that is my own cousin Sophia, Mrs. Dr. dear.\nWe quarrelled when we were children over who should get a Sunday-school\ncard with the words 'God is Love,' wreathed in rosebuds, on it, and\nhave never spoken to each other since. And now she is coming to live\nright across the road from us.\"\n\n\"You will have to make up the old quarrel, Susan. It will never do to\nbe at outs with your neighbours.\"\n\n\"Cousin Sophia began the quarrel, so she can begin the making up also,\nMrs. Dr. dear,\" said Susan loftily. \"If she does I hope I am a good\nenough Christian to meet her half-way. She is not a cheerful person and\nhas been a wet blanket all her life. The last time I saw her, her face\nhad a thousand wrinkles--maybe more, maybe less--from worrying and\nforeboding. She howled dreadful at her first husband's funeral but she\nmarried again in less than a year. The next note, I see, describes the\nspecial service in our church last Sunday night and says the\ndecorations were very beautiful.\"\n\n\"Speaking of that reminds me that Mr. Pryor strongly disapproves of\nflowers in church,\" said Miss Cornelia. \"I always said there would be\ntrouble when that man moved here from Lowbridge. He should never have\nbeen put in as elder--it was a mistake and we shall live to rue it,\nbelieve me! I have heard that he has said that if the girls continue to\n'mess up the pulpit with weeds' that he will not go to church.\"\n\n\"The church got on very well before old Whiskers-on-the-moon came to\nthe Glen and it is my opinion it will get on without him after he is\ngone,\" said Susan.\n\n\"Who in the world ever gave him that ridiculous nickname?\" asked Mrs.\nBlythe.\n\n\"Why, the Lowbridge boys have called him that ever since I can\nremember, Mrs. Dr. dear--I suppose because his face is so round and\nred, with that fringe of sandy whisker about it. It does not do for\nanyone to call him that in his hearing, though, and that you may tie\nto. But worse than his whiskers, Mrs. Dr. dear, he is a very\nunreasonable man and has a great many queer ideas. He is an elder now\nand they say he is very religious; but I can well remember the time,\nMrs. Dr. dear, twenty years ago, when he was caught pasturing his cow\nin the Lowbridge graveyard. Yes, indeed, I have not forgotten that, and\nI always think of it when he is praying in meeting. Well, that is all\nthe notes and there is not much else in the paper of any importance. I\nnever take much interest in foreign parts. Who is this Archduke man who\nhas been murdered?\"\n\n\"What does it matter to us?\" asked Miss Cornelia, unaware of the\nhideous answer to her question which destiny was even then preparing.\n\"Somebody is always murdering or being murdered in those Balkan States.\nIt's their normal condition and I don't really think that our papers\nought to print such shocking things. The Enterprise is getting far too\nsensational with its big headlines. Well, I must be getting home. No,\nAnne dearie, it's no use asking me to stay to supper. Marshall has got\nto thinking that if I'm not home for a meal it's not worth eating--just\nlike a man. So off I go. Merciful goodness, Anne dearie, what is the\nmatter with that cat? Is he having a fit?\"--this, as Doc suddenly\nbounded to the rug at Miss Cornelia's feet, laid back his ears, swore\nat her, and then disappeared with one fierce leap through the window.\n\n\"Oh, no. He's merely turning into Mr. Hyde--which means that we shall\nhave rain or high wind before morning. Doc is as good as a barometer.\"\n\n\"Well, I am thankful he has gone on the rampage outside this time and\nnot into my kitchen,\" said Susan. \"And I am going out to see about\nsupper. With such a crowd as we have at Ingleside now it behooves us to\nthink about our meals betimes.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nDEW OF MORNING\n\nOutside, the Ingleside lawn was full of golden pools of sunshine and\nplots of alluring shadows. Rilla Blythe was swinging in the hammock\nunder the big Scotch pine, Gertrude Oliver sat at its roots beside her,\nand Walter was stretched at full length on the grass, lost in a romance\nof chivalry wherein old heroes and beauties of dead and gone centuries\nlived vividly again for him.\n\nRilla was the \"baby\" of the Blythe family and was in a chronic state of\nsecret indignation because nobody believed she was grown up. She was so\nnearly fifteen that she called herself that, and she was quite as tall\nas Di and Nan; also, she was nearly as pretty as Susan believed her to\nbe. She had great, dreamy, hazel eyes, a milky skin dappled with little\ngolden freckles, and delicately arched eyebrows, giving her a demure,\nquestioning look which made people, especially lads in their teens,\nwant to answer it. Her hair was ripely, ruddily brown and a little dent\nin her upper lip looked as if some good fairy had pressed it in with\nher finger at Rilla's christening. Rilla, whose best friends could not\ndeny her share of vanity, thought her face would do very well, but\nworried over her figure, and wished her mother could be prevailed upon\nto let her wear longer dresses. She, who had been so plump and\nroly-poly in the old Rainbow Valley days, was incredibly slim now, in\nthe arms-and-legs period. Jem and Shirley harrowed her soul by calling\nher \"Spider.\" Yet she somehow escaped awkwardness. There was something\nin her movements that made you think she never walked but always\ndanced. She had been much petted and was a wee bit spoiled, but still\nthe general opinion was that Rilla Blythe was a very sweet girl, even\nif she were not so clever as Nan and Di.\n\nMiss Oliver, who was going home that night for vacation, had boarded\nfor a year at Ingleside. The Blythes had taken her to please Rilla who\nwas fathoms deep in love with her teacher and was even willing to share\nher room, since no other was available. Gertrude Oliver was\ntwenty-eight and life had been a struggle for her. She was a\nstriking-looking girl, with rather sad, almond-shaped brown eyes, a\nclever, rather mocking mouth, and enormous masses of black hair twisted\nabout her head. She was not pretty but there was a certain charm of\ninterest and mystery in her face, and Rilla found her fascinating. Even\nher occasional moods of gloom and cynicism had allurement for Rilla.\nThese moods came only when Miss Oliver was tired. At all other times\nshe was a stimulating companion, and the gay set at Ingleside never\nremembered that she was so much older than themselves. Walter and Rilla\nwere her favourites and she was the confidante of the secret wishes and\naspirations of both. She knew that Rilla longed to be \"out\"--to go to\nparties as Nan and Di did, and to have dainty evening dresses and--yes,\nthere is no mincing matters--beaux! In the plural, at that! As for\nWalter, Miss Oliver knew that he had written a sequence of sonnets \"to\nRosamond\"--i.e., Faith Meredith--and that he aimed at a Professorship\nof English literature in some big college. She knew his passionate love\nof beauty and his equally passionate hatred of ugliness; she knew his\nstrength and his weakness.\n\nWalter was, as ever, the handsomest of the Ingleside boys. Miss Oliver\nfound pleasure in looking at him for his good looks--he was so exactly\nlike what she would have liked her own son to be. Glossy black hair,\nbrilliant dark grey eyes, faultless features. And a poet to his\nfingertips! That sonnet sequence was really a remarkable thing for a\nlad of twenty to write. Miss Oliver was no partial critic and she knew\nthat Walter Blythe had a wonderful gift.\n\nRilla loved Walter with all her heart. He never teased her as Jem and\nShirley did. He never called her \"Spider.\" His pet name for her was\n\"Rilla-my-Rilla\"--a little pun on her real name, Marilla. She had been\nnamed after Aunt Marilla of Green Gables, but Aunt Marilla had died\nbefore Rilla was old enough to know her very well, and Rilla detested\nthe name as being horribly old-fashioned and prim. Why couldn't they\nhave called her by her first name, Bertha, which was beautiful and\ndignified, instead of that silly \"Rilla\"? She did not mind Walter's\nversion, but nobody else was allowed to call her that, except Miss\nOliver now and then. \"Rilla-my-Rilla\" in Walter's musical voice sounded\nvery beautiful to her--like the lilt and ripple of some silvery brook.\nShe would have died for Walter if it would have done him any good, so\nshe told Miss Oliver. Rilla was as fond of italics as most girls of\nfifteen are--and the bitterest drop in her cup was her suspicion that\nhe told Di more of his secrets than he told her.\n\n\"He thinks I'm not grown up enough to understand,\" she had once\nlamented rebelliously to Miss Oliver, \"but I am! And I would never tell\nthem to a single soul--not even to you, Miss Oliver. I tell you all my\nown--I just couldn't be happy if I had any secret from you,\ndearest--but I would never betray his. I tell him everything--I even\nshow him my diary. And it hurts me dreadfully when he doesn't tell me\nthings. He shows me all his poems, though--they are marvellous, Miss\nOliver. Oh, I just live in the hope that some day I shall be to Walter\nwhat Wordsworth's sister Dorothy was to him. Wordsworth never wrote\nanything like Walter's poems--nor Tennyson, either.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't say just that. Both of them wrote a great deal of trash,\"\nsaid Miss Oliver dryly. Then, repenting, as she saw a hurt look in\nRilla's eye, she added hastily,\n\n\"But I believe Walter will be a great poet, too--some day--and you will\nhave more of his confidence as you grow older.\"\n\n\"When Walter was in the hospital with typhoid last year I was almost\ncrazy,\" sighed Rilla, a little importantly. \"They never told me how ill\nhe really was until it was all over--father wouldn't let them. I'm glad\nI didn't know--I couldn't have borne it. I cried myself to sleep every\nnight as it was. But sometimes,\" concluded Rilla bitterly--she liked to\nspeak bitterly now and then in imitation of Miss Oliver--\"sometimes I\nthink Walter cares more for Dog Monday than he does for me.\"\n\nDog Monday was the Ingleside dog, so called because he had come into\nthe family on a Monday when Walter had been reading Robinson Crusoe. He\nreally belonged to Jem but was much attached to Walter also. He was\nlying beside Walter now with nose snuggled against his arm, thumping\nhis tail rapturously whenever Walter gave him an absent pat. Monday was\nnot a collie or a setter or a hound or a Newfoundland. He was just, as\nJem said, \"plain dog\"--very plain dog, uncharitable people added.\nCertainly, Monday's looks were not his strong point. Black spots were\nscattered at random over his yellow carcass, one of them, apparently,\nblotting out an eye. His ears were in tatters, for Monday was never\nsuccessful in affairs of honour. But he possessed one talisman. He knew\nthat not all dogs could be handsome or eloquent or victorious, but that\nevery dog could love. Inside his homely hide beat the most\naffectionate, loyal, faithful heart of any dog since dogs were; and\nsomething looked out of his brown eyes that was nearer akin to a soul\nthan any theologian would allow. Everybody at Ingleside was fond of\nhim, even Susan, although his one unfortunate propensity of sneaking\ninto the spare room and going to sleep on the bed tried her affection\nsorely.\n\nOn this particular afternoon Rilla had no quarrel on hand with existing\nconditions.\n\n\"Hasn't June been a delightful month?\" she asked, looking dreamily afar\nat the little quiet silvery clouds hanging so peacefully over Rainbow\nValley. \"We've had such lovely times--and such lovely weather. It has\njust been perfect every way.\"\n\n\"I don't half like that,\" said Miss Oliver, with a sigh. \"It's\nominous--somehow. A perfect thing is a gift of the gods--a sort of\ncompensation for what is coming afterwards. I've seen that so often\nthat I don't care to hear people say they've had a perfect time. June\nhas been delightful, though.\"\n\n\"Of course, it hasn't been very exciting,\" said Rilla. \"The only\nexciting thing that has happened in the Glen for a year was old Miss\nMead fainting in Church. Sometimes I wish something dramatic would\nhappen once in a while.\"\n\n\"Don't wish it. Dramatic things always have a bitterness for some one.\nWhat a nice summer all you gay creatures will have! And me moping at\nLowbridge!\"\n\n\"You'll be over often, won't you? I think there's going to be lots of\nfun this summer, though I'll just be on the fringe of things as usual,\nI suppose. Isn't it horrid when people think you're a little girl when\nyou're not?\"\n\n\"There's plenty of time for you to be grown up, Rilla. Don't wish your\nyouth away. It goes too quickly. You'll begin to taste life soon\nenough.\"\n\n\"Taste life! I want to eat it,\" cried Rilla, laughing. \"I want\neverything--everything a girl can have. I'll be fifteen in another\nmonth, and then nobody can say I'm a child any longer. I heard someone\nsay once that the years from fifteen to nineteen are the best years in\na girl's life. I'm going to make them perfectly splendid--just fill\nthem with fun.\"\n\n\"There's no use thinking about what you're going to do--you are\ntolerably sure not to do it.\"\n\n\"Oh, but you do get a lot of fun out of the thinking,\" cried Rilla.\n\n\"You think of nothing but fun, you monkey,\" said Miss Oliver\nindulgently, reflecting that Rilla's chin was really the last word in\nchins. \"Well, what else is fifteen for? But have you any notion of\ngoing to college this fall?\"\n\n\"No--nor any other fall. I don't want to. I never cared for all those\nologies and isms Nan and Di are so crazy about. And there's five of us\ngoing to college already. Surely that's enough. There's bound to be one\ndunce in every family. I'm quite willing to be a dunce if I can be a\npretty, popular, delightful one. I can't be clever. I have no talent at\nall, and you can't imagine how comfortable it is. Nobody expects me to\ndo anything so I'm never pestered to do it. And I can't be a\nhousewifely, cookly creature, either. I hate sewing and dusting, and\nwhen Susan couldn't teach me to make biscuits nobody could. Father says\nI toil not neither do I spin. Therefore, I must be a lily of the\nfield,\" concluded Rilla, with another laugh.\n\n\"You are too young to give up your studies altogether, Rilla.\"\n\n\"Oh, mother will put me through a course of reading next winter. It\nwill polish up her B.A. degree. Luckily I like reading. Don't look at\nme so sorrowfully and so disapprovingly, dearest. I can't be sober and\nserious--everything looks so rosy and rainbowy to me. Next month I'll\nbe fifteen--and next year sixteen--and the year after that seventeen.\nCould anything be more enchanting?\"\n\n\"Rap wood,\" said Gertrude Oliver, half laughingly, half seriously. \"Rap\nwood, Rilla-my-Rilla.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nMOONLIT MIRTH\n\nRilla, who still buttoned up her eyes when she went to sleep so that\nshe always looked as if she were laughing in her slumber, yawned,\nstretched, and smiled at Gertrude Oliver. The latter had come over from\nLowbridge the previous evening and had been prevailed upon to remain\nfor the dance at the Four Winds lighthouse the next night.\n\n\"The new day is knocking at the window. What will it bring us, I\nwonder.\"\n\nMiss Oliver shivered a little. She never greeted the days with Rilla's\nenthusiasm. She had lived long enough to know that a day may bring a\nterrible thing.\n\n\"I think the nicest thing about days is their unexpectedness,\" went on\nRilla. \"It's jolly to wake up like this on a golden-fine morning and\nwonder what surprise packet the day will hand you. I always day-dream\nfor ten minutes before I get up, imagining the heaps of splendid things\nthat may happen before night.\"\n\n\"I hope something very unexpected will happen today,\" said Gertrude. \"I\nhope the mail will bring us news that war has been averted between\nGermany and France.\"\n\n\"Oh--yes,\" said Rilla vaguely. \"It will be dreadful if it isn't, I\nsuppose. But it won't really matter much to us, will it? I think a war\nwould be so exciting. The Boer war was, they say, but I don't remember\nanything about it, of course. Miss Oliver, shall I wear my white dress\ntonight or my new green one? The green one is by far the prettier, of\ncourse, but I'm almost afraid to wear it to a shore dance for fear\nsomething will happen to it. And will you do my hair the new way? None\nof the other girls in the Glen wear it yet and it will make such a\nsensation.\"\n\n\"How did you induce your mother to let you go to the dance?\"\n\n\"Oh, Walter coaxed her over. He knew I would be heart-broken if I\ndidn't go. It's my first really-truly grown-up party, Miss Oliver, and\nI've just lain awake at nights for a week thinking it over. When I saw\nthe sun shining this morning I wanted to whoop for joy. It would be\nsimply terrible if it rained tonight. I think I'll wear the green dress\nand risk it. I want to look my nicest at my first party. Besides, it's\nan inch longer than my white one. And I'll wear my silver slippers too.\nMrs. Ford sent them to me last Christmas and I've never had a chance to\nwear them yet. They're the dearest things. Oh, Miss Oliver, I do hope\nsome of the boys will ask me to dance. I shall die of\nmortification--truly I will, if nobody does and I have to sit stuck up\nagainst the wall all the evening. Of course Carl and Jerry can't dance\nbecause they're the minister's sons, or else I could depend on them to\nsave me from utter disgrace.\"\n\n\"You'll have plenty of partners--all the over-harbour boys are\ncoming--there'll be far more boys than girls.\"\n\n\"I'm glad I'm not a minister's daughter,\" laughed Rilla. \"Poor Faith is\nso furious because she won't dare to dance tonight. Una doesn't care,\nof course. She has never hankered after dancing. Somebody told Faith\nthere would be a taffy-pull in the kitchen for those who didn't dance\nand you should have seen the face she made. She and Jem will sit out on\nthe rocks most of the evening, I suppose. Did you know that we are all\nto walk down as far as that little creek below the old House of Dreams\nand then sail to the lighthouse? Won't it just be absolutely divine?\"\n\n\"When I was fifteen I talked in italics and superlatives too,\" said\nMiss Oliver sarcastically. \"I think the party promises to be pleasant\nfor young fry. I expect to be bored. None of those boys will bother\ndancing with an old maid like me. Jem and Walter will take me out once\nout of charity. So you can't expect me to look forward to it with your\ntouching young rapture.\"\n\n\"Didn't you have a good time at your first party, though, Miss Oliver?\"\n\n\"No. I had a hateful time. I was shabby and homely and nobody asked me\nto dance except one boy, homelier and shabbier than myself. He was so\nawkward I hated him--and even he didn't ask me again. I had no real\ngirlhood, Rilla. It's a sad loss. That's why I want you to have a\nsplendid, happy girlhood. And I hope your first party will be one\nyou'll remember all your life with pleasure.\"\n\n\"I dreamed last night I was at the dance and right in the middle of\nthings I discovered I was dressed in my kimono and bedroom shoes,\"\nsighed Rilla. \"I woke up with a gasp of horror.\"\n\n\"Speaking of dreams--I had an odd one,\" said Miss Oliver absently. \"It\nwas one of those vivid dreams I sometimes have--they are not the vague\njumble of ordinary dreams--they are as clear cut and real as life.\"\n\n\"What was your dream?\"\n\n\"I was standing on the veranda steps, here at Ingleside, looking down\nover the fields of the Glen. All at once, far in the distance, I saw a\nlong, silvery, glistening wave breaking over them. It came nearer and\nnearer--just a succession of little white waves like those that break\non the sandshore sometimes. The Glen was being swallowed up. I thought,\n'Surely the waves will not come near Ingleside'--but they came nearer\nand nearer--so rapidly--before I could move or call they were breaking\nright at my feet--and everything was gone--there was nothing but a\nwaste of stormy water where the Glen had been. I tried to draw\nback--and I saw that the edge of my dress was wet with blood--and I\nwoke--shivering. I don't like the dream. There was some sinister\nsignificance in it. That kind of vivid dream always 'comes true' with\nme.\"\n\n\"I hope it doesn't mean there's a storm coming up from the east to\nspoil the party,\" murmured Rilla.\n\n\"Incorrigible fifteen!\" said Miss Oliver dryly. \"No, Rilla-my-Rilla, I\ndon't think there is any danger that it foretells anything so awful as\nthat.\"\n\nThere had been an undercurrent of tension in the Ingleside existence\nfor several days. Only Rilla, absorbed in her own budding life, was\nunaware of it. Dr. Blythe had taken to looking grave and saying little\nover the daily paper. Jem and Walter were keenly interested in the news\nit brought. Jem sought Walter out in excitement that evening.\n\n\"Oh, boy, Germany has declared war on France. This means that England\nwill fight too, probably--and if she does--well, the Piper of your old\nfancy will have come at last.\"\n\n\"It wasn't a fancy,\" said Walter slowly. \"It was a presentiment--a\nvision--Jem, I really saw him for a moment that evening long ago.\nSuppose England does fight?\"\n\n\"Why, we'll all have to turn in and help her,\" cried Jem gaily. \"We\ncouldn't let the 'old grey mother of the northern sea' fight it out\nalone, could we? But you can't go--the typhoid has done you out of\nthat. Sort of a shame, eh?\"\n\nWalter did not say whether it was a shame or not. He looked silently\nover the Glen to the dimpling blue harbour beyond.\n\n\"We're the cubs--we've got to pitch in tooth and claw if it comes to a\nfamily row,\" Jem went on cheerfully, rumpling up his red curls with a\nstrong, lean, sensitive brown hand--the hand of the born surgeon, his\nfather often thought. \"What an adventure it would be! But I suppose\nGrey or some of those wary old chaps will patch matters up at the\neleventh hour. It'll be a rotten shame if they leave France in the\nlurch, though. If they don't, we'll see some fun. Well, I suppose it's\ntime to get ready for the spree at the light.\"\n\nJem departed whistling \"Wi' a hundred pipers and a' and a',\" and Walter\nstood for a long time where he was. There was a little frown on his\nforehead. This had all come up with the blackness and suddenness of a\nthundercloud. A few days ago nobody had even thought of such a thing.\nIt was absurd to think of it now. Some way out would be found. War was\na hellish, horrible, hideous thing--too horrible and hideous to happen\nin the twentieth century between civilized nations. The mere thought of\nit was hideous, and made Walter unhappy in its threat to the beauty of\nlife. He would not think of it--he would resolutely put it out of his\nmind. How beautiful the old Glen was, in its August ripeness, with its\nchain of bowery old homesteads, tilled meadows and quiet gardens. The\nwestern sky was like a great golden pearl. Far down the harbour was\nfrosted with a dawning moonlight. The air was full of exquisite\nsounds--sleepy robin whistles, wonderful, mournful, soft murmurs of\nwind in the twilit trees, rustle of aspen poplars talking in silvery\nwhispers and shaking their dainty, heart-shaped leaves, lilting young\nlaughter from the windows of rooms where the girls were making ready\nfor the dance. The world was steeped in maddening loveliness of sound\nand colour. He would think only of these things and of the deep, subtle\njoy they gave him. \"Anyhow, no one will expect me to go,\" he thought.\n\"As Jem says, typhoid has seen to that.\"\n\nRilla was leaning out of her room window, dressed for the dance. A\nyellow pansy slipped from her hair and fell out over the sill like a\nfalling star of gold. She caught at it vainly--but there were enough\nleft. Miss Oliver had woven a little wreath of them for her pet's hair.\n\n\"It's so beautifully calm--isn't that splendid? We'll have a perfect\nnight. Listen, Miss Oliver--I can hear those old bells in Rainbow\nValley quite clearly. They've been hanging there for over ten years.\"\n\n\"Their wind chime always makes me think of the aerial, celestial music\nAdam and Eve heard in Milton's Eden,\" responded Miss Oliver.\n\n\"We used to have such fun in Rainbow Valley when we were children,\"\nsaid Rilla dreamily.\n\nNobody ever played in Rainbow Valley now. It was very silent on summer\nevenings. Walter liked to go there to read. Jem and Faith trysted there\nconsiderably; Jerry and Nan went there to pursue uninterruptedly the\nceaseless wrangles and arguments on profound subjects that seemed to be\ntheir preferred method of sweethearting. And Rilla had a beloved little\nsylvan dell of her own there where she liked to sit and dream.\n\n\"I must run down to the kitchen before I go and show myself off to\nSusan. She would never forgive me if I didn't.\"\n\nRilla whirled into the shadowy kitchen at Ingleside, where Susan was\nprosaically darning socks, and lighted it up with her beauty. She wore\nher green dress with its little pink daisy garlands, her silk stockings\nand silver slippers. She had golden pansies in her hair and at her\ncreamy throat. She was so pretty and young and glowing that even Cousin\nSophia Crawford was compelled to admire her--and Cousin Sophia Crawford\nadmired few transient earthly things. Cousin Sophia and Susan had made\nup, or ignored, their old feud since the former had come to live in the\nGlen, and Cousin Sophia often came across in the evenings to make a\nneighbourly call. Susan did not always welcome her rapturously for\nCousin Sophia was not what could be called an exhilarating companion.\n\"Some calls are visits and some are visitations, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" Susan\nsaid once, and left it to be inferred that Cousin Sophia's were the\nlatter.\n\nCousin Sophia had a long, pale, wrinkled face, a long, thin nose, a\nlong, thin mouth, and very long, thin, pale hands, generally folded\nresignedly on her black calico lap. Everything about her seemed long\nand thin and pale. She looked mournfully upon Rilla Blythe and said\nsadly,\n\n\"Is your hair all your own?\"\n\n\"Of course it is,\" cried Rilla indignantly.\n\n\"Ah, well!\" Cousin Sophia sighed. \"It might be better for you if it\nwasn't! Such a lot of hair takes from a person's strength. It's a sign\nof consumption, I've heard, but I hope it won't turn out like that in\nyour case. I s'pose you'll all be dancing tonight--even the minister's\nboys most likely. I s'pose his girls won't go that far. Ah, well, I\nnever held with dancing. I knew a girl once who dropped dead while she\nwas dancing. How any one could ever dance aga' after a judgment like\nthat I cannot comprehend.\"\n\n\"Did she ever dance again?\" asked Rilla pertly.\n\n\"I told you she dropped dead. Of course she never danced again, poor\ncreature. She was a Kirke from Lowbridge. You ain't a-going off like\nthat with nothing on your bare neck, are you?\"\n\n\"It's a hot evening,\" protested Rilla. \"But I'll put on a scarf when we\ngo on the water.\"\n\n\"I knew of a boat load of young folks who went sailing on that harbour\nforty years ago just such a night as this--just exactly such a night as\nthis,\" said Cousin Sophia lugubriously, \"and they were upset and\ndrowned--every last one of them. I hope nothing like that'll happen to\nyou tonight. Do you ever try anything for the freckles? I used to find\nplantain juice real good.\"\n\n\"You certainly should be a judge of freckles, Cousin Sophia,\" said\nSusan, rushing to Rilla's defence. \"You were more speckled than any\ntoad when you was a girl. Rilla's only come in summer but yours stayed\nput, season in and season out; and you had not a ground colour like\nhers behind them neither. You look real nice, Rilla, and that way of\nfixing your hair is becoming. But you are not going to walk to the\nharbour in those slippers, are you?\"\n\n\"Oh, no. We'll all wear our old shoes to the harbour and carry our\nslippers. Do you like my dress, Susan?\"\n\n\"It minds me of a dress I wore when I was a girl,\" sighed Cousin Sophia\nbefore Susan could reply. \"It was green with pink posies on it, too,\nand it was flounced from the waist to the hem. We didn't wear the\nskimpy things girls wear nowadays. Ah me, times has changed and not for\nthe better I'm afraid. I tore a big hole in it that night and someone\nspilled a cup of tea all over it. Ruined it completely. But I hope\nnothing will happen to your dress. It orter to be a bit longer I'm\nthinking--your legs are so terrible long and thin.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Dr. Blythe does not approve of little girls dressing like\ngrown-up ones,\" said Susan stiffly, intending merely a snub to Cousin\nSophia. But Rilla felt insulted. A little girl indeed! She whisked out\nof the kitchen in high dudgeon. Another time she wouldn't go down to\nshow herself off to Susan--Susan, who thought nobody was grown up until\nshe was sixty! And that horrid Cousin Sophia with her digs about\nfreckles and legs! What business had an old--an old beanpole like that\nto talk of anybody else being long and thin? Rilla felt all her\npleasure in herself and her evening clouded and spoiled. The very teeth\nof her soul were set on edge and she could have sat down and cried.\n\nBut later on her spirits rose again when she found herself one of the\ngay crowd bound for the Four Winds light.\n\nThe Blythes left Ingleside to the melancholy music of howls from Dog\nMonday, who was locked up in the barn lest he make an uninvited guest\nat the light. They picked up the Merediths in the village, and others\njoined them as they walked down the old harbour road. Mary Vance,\nresplendent in blue crepe, with lace overdress, came out of Miss\nCornelia's gate and attached herself to Rilla and Miss Oliver who were\nwalking together and who did not welcome her over-warmly. Rilla was not\nvery fond of Mary Vance. She had never forgotten the humiliating day\nwhen Mary had chased her through the village with a dried codfish. Mary\nVance, to tell the truth, was not exactly popular with any of her set.\nStill, they enjoyed her society--she had such a biting tongue that it\nwas stimulating. \"Mary Vance is a habit of ours--we can't do without\nher even when we are furious with her,\" Di Blythe had once said.\n\nMost of the little crowd were paired off after a fashion. Jem walked\nwith Faith Meredith, of course, and Jerry Meredith with Nan Blythe. Di\nand Walter were together, deep in confidential conversation which Rilla\nenvied.\n\nCarl Meredith was walking with Miranda Pryor, more to torment Joe\nMilgrave than for any other reason. Joe was known to have a strong\nhankering for the said Miranda, which shyness prevented him from\nindulging on all occasions. Joe might summon enough courage to amble up\nbeside Miranda if the night were dark, but here, in this moonlit dusk,\nhe simply could not do it. So he trailed along after the procession and\nthought things not lawful to be uttered of Carl Meredith. Miranda was\nthe daughter of Whiskers-on-the-moon; she did not share her father's\nunpopularity but she was not much run after, being a pale, neutral\nlittle creature, somewhat addicted to nervous giggling. She had silvery\nblonde hair and her eyes were big china blue orbs that looked as if she\nhad been badly frightened when she was little and had never got over\nit. She would much rather have walked with Joe than with Carl, with\nwhom she did not feel in the least at home. Yet it was something of an\nhonour, too, to have a college boy beside her, and a son of the manse\nat that.\n\nShirley Blythe was with Una Meredith and both were rather silent\nbecause such was their nature. Shirley was a lad of sixteen, sedate,\nsensible, thoughtful, full of a quiet humour. He was Susan's \"little\nbrown boy\" yet, with his brown hair, brown eyes, and clear brown skin.\nHe liked to walk with Una Meredith because she never tried to make him\ntalk or badgered him with chatter. Una was as sweet and shy as she had\nbeen in the Rainbow Valley days, and her large, dark-blue eyes were as\ndreamy and wistful. She had a secret, carefully-hidden fancy for Walter\nBlythe that nobody but Rilla ever suspected. Rilla sympathized with it\nand wished Walter would return it. She liked Una better than Faith,\nwhose beauty and aplomb rather overshadowed other girls--and Rilla did\nnot enjoy being overshadowed.\n\nBut just now she was very happy. It was so delightful to be tripping\nwith her friends down that dark, gleaming road sprinkled with its\nlittle spruces and firs, whose balsam made all the air resinous around\nthem. Meadows of sunset afterlight were behind the westerning hills.\nBefore them was the shining harbour. A bell was ringing in the little\nchurch over-harbour and the lingering dream-notes died around the dim,\namethystine points. The gulf beyond was still silvery blue in the\nafterlight. Oh, it was all glorious--the clear air with its salt tang,\nthe balsam of the firs, the laughter of her friends. Rilla loved\nlife--its bloom and brilliance; she loved the ripple of music, the hum\nof merry conversation; she wanted to walk on forever over this road of\nsilver and shadow. It was her first party and she was going to have a\nsplendid time. There was nothing in the world to worry about--not even\nfreckles and over-long legs--nothing except one little haunting fear\nthat nobody would ask her to dance. It was beautiful and satisfying\njust to be alive--to be fifteen--to be pretty. Rilla drew a long breath\nof rapture--and caught it midway rather sharply. Jem was telling some\nstory to Faith--something that had happened in the Balkan War.\n\n\"The doctor lost both his legs--they were smashed to pulp--and he was\nleft on the field to die. And he crawled about from man to man, to all\nthe wounded men round him, as long as he could, and did everything\npossible to relieve their sufferings--never thinking of himself--he was\ntying a bit of bandage round another man's leg when he went under. They\nfound them there, the doctor's dead hands still held the bandage tight,\nthe bleeding was stopped and the other man's life was saved. Some hero,\nwasn't he, Faith? I tell you when I read that--\"\n\nJem and Faith moved on out of hearing. Gertrude Oliver suddenly\nshivered. Rilla pressed her arm sympathetically.\n\n\"Wasn't it dreadful, Miss Oliver? I don't know why Jem tells such\ngruesome things at a time like this when we're all out for fun.\"\n\n\"Do you think it dreadful, Rilla? I thought it wonderful--beautiful.\nSuch a story makes one ashamed of ever doubting human nature. That\nman's action was godlike. And how humanity responds to the ideal of\nself-sacrifice. As for my shiver, I don't know what caused it. The\nevening is certainly warm enough. Perhaps someone is walking over the\ndark, starshiny spot that is to be my grave. That is the explanation\nthe old superstition would give. Well, I won't think of that on this\nlovely night. Do you know, Rilla, that when night-time comes I'm always\nglad I live in the country. We know the real charm of night here as\ntown dwellers never do. Every night is beautiful in the country--even\nthe stormy ones. I love a wild night storm on this old gulf shore. As\nfor a night like this, it is almost too beautiful--it belongs to youth\nand dreamland and I'm half afraid of it.\"\n\n\"I feel as if I were part of it,\" said Rilla.\n\n\"Ah yes, you're young enough not to be afraid of perfect things. Well,\nhere we are at the House of Dreams. It seems lonely this summer. The\nFords didn't come?\"\n\n\"Mr. and Mrs. Ford and Persis didn't. Kenneth did--but he stayed with\nhis mother's people over-harbour. We haven't seen a great deal of him\nthis summer. He's a little lame, so didn't go about very much.\"\n\n\"Lame? What happened to him?\"\n\n\"He broke his ankle in a football game last fall and was laid up most\nof the winter. He has limped a little ever since but it is getting\nbetter all the time and he expects it will be all right before long. He\nhas been up to Ingleside only twice.\"\n\n\"Ethel Reese is simply crazy about him,\" said Mary Vance. \"She hasn't\ngot the sense she was born with where he is concerned. He walked home\nwith her from the over-harbour church last prayer-meeting night and the\nairs she has put on since would really make you weary of life. As if a\nToronto boy like Ken Ford would ever really think of a country girl\nlike Ethel!\"\n\nRilla flushed. It did not matter to her if Kenneth Ford walked home\nwith Ethel Reese a dozen times--it did not! Nothing that he did\nmattered to her. He was ages older than she was. He chummed with Nan\nand Di and Faith, and looked upon her, Rilla, as a child whom he never\nnoticed except to tease. And she detested Ethel Reese and Ethel Reese\nhated her--always had hated her since Walter had pummelled Dan so\nnotoriously in Rainbow Valley days; but why need she be thought beneath\nKenneth Ford's notice because she was a country girl, pray? As for Mary\nVance, she was getting to be an out-and-out gossip and thought of\nnothing but who walked home with people!\n\nThere was a little pier on the harbour shore below the House of Dreams,\nand two boats were moored there. One boat was skippered by Jem Blythe,\nthe other by Joe Milgrave, who knew all about boats and was nothing\nloth to let Miranda Pryor see it. They raced down the harbour and Joe's\nboat won. More boats were coming down from the Harbour Head and across\nthe harbour from the western side. Everywhere there was laughter. The\nbig white tower on Four Winds Point was overflowing with light, while\nits revolving beacon flashed overhead. A family from Charlottetown,\nrelatives of the light's keeper, were summering at the light, and they\nwere giving the party to which all the young people of Four Winds and\nGlen St. Mary and over-harbour had been invited. As Jem's boat swung in\nbelow the lighthouse Rilla desperately snatched off her shoes and\ndonned her silver slippers behind Miss Oliver's screening back. A\nglance had told her that the rock-cut steps climbing up to the light\nwere lined with boys, and lighted by Chinese lanterns, and she was\ndetermined she would not walk up those steps in the heavy shoes her\nmother had insisted on her wearing for the road. The slippers pinched\nabominably, but nobody would have suspected it as Rilla tripped\nsmilingly up the steps, her soft dark eyes glowing and questioning, her\ncolour deepening richly on her round, creamy cheeks. The very minute\nshe reached the top of the steps an over-harbour boy asked her to dance\nand the next moment they were in the pavilion that had been built\nseaward of the lighthouse for dances. It was a delightful spot, roofed\nover with fir-boughs and hung with lanterns. Beyond was the sea in a\nradiance that glowed and shimmered, to the left the moonlit crests and\nhollows of the sand-dunes, to the right the rocky shore with its inky\nshadows and its crystalline coves. Rilla and her partner swung in among\nthe dancers; she drew a long breath of delight; what witching music Ned\nBurr of the Upper Glen was coaxing from his fiddle--it was really like\nthe magical pipes of the old tale which compelled all who heard them to\ndance. How cool and fresh the gulf breeze blew; how white and wonderful\nthe moonlight was over everything! This was life--enchanting life.\nRilla felt as if her feet and her soul both had wings.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTHE PIPER PIPES\n\nRilla's first party was a triumph--or so it seemed at first. She had so\nmany partners that she had to split her dances. Her silver slippers\nseemed verily to dance of themselves and though they continued to pinch\nher toes and blister her heels that did not interfere with her\nenjoyment in the least. Ethel Reese gave her a bad ten minutes by\nbeckoning her mysteriously out of the pavilion and whispering, with a\nReese-like smirk, that her dress gaped behind and that there was a\nstain on the flounce. Rilla rushed miserably to the room in the\nlighthouse which was fitted up for a temporary ladies' dressing-room,\nand discovered that the stain was merely a tiny grass smear and that\nthe gap was equally tiny where a hook had pulled loose. Irene Howard\nfastened it up for her and gave her some over-sweet, condescending\ncompliments. Rilla felt flattered by Irene's condescension. She was an\nUpper Glen girl of nineteen who seemed to like the society of the\nyounger girls--spiteful friends said because she could queen it over\nthem without rivalry. But Rilla thought Irene quite wonderful and loved\nher for her patronage. Irene was pretty and stylish; she sang divinely\nand spent every winter in Charlottetown taking music lessons. She had\nan aunt in Montreal who sent her wonderful things to wear; she was\nreported to have had a sad love affair--nobody knew just what, but its\nvery mystery allured. Rilla felt that Irene's compliments crowned her\nevening. She ran gaily back to the pavilion and lingered for a moment\nin the glow of the lanterns at the entrance looking at the dancers. A\nmomentary break in the whirling throng gave her a glimpse of Kenneth\nFord standing at the other side.\n\nRilla's heart skipped a beat--or, if that be a physiological\nimpossibility, she thought it did. So he was here, after all. She had\nconcluded he was not coming--not that it mattered in the least. Would\nhe see her? Would he take any notice of her? Of course, he wouldn't ask\nher to dance--that couldn't be hoped for. He thought her just a mere\nchild. He had called her \"Spider\" not three weeks ago when he had been\nat Ingleside one evening. She had cried about it upstairs afterwards\nand hated him. But her heart skipped a beat when she saw that he was\nedging his way round the side of the pavilion towards her. Was he\ncoming to her--was he?--was he?--yes, he was! He was looking for\nher--he was here beside her--he was gazing down at her with something\nin his dark grey eyes that Rilla had never seen in them. Oh, it was\nalmost too much to bear! and everything was going on as before--the\ndancers were spinning round, the boys who couldn't get partners were\nhanging about the pavilion, canoodling couples were sitting out on the\nrocks--nobody seemed to realize what a stupendous thing had happened.\n\nKenneth was a tall lad, very good looking, with a certain careless\ngrace of bearing that somehow made all the other boys seem stiff and\nawkward by contrast. He was reported to be awesomely clever, with the\nglamour of a far-away city and a big university hanging around him. He\nhad also the reputation of being a bit of a lady-killer. But that\nprobably accrued to him from his possession of a laughing, velvety\nvoice which no girl could hear without a heartbeat, and a dangerous way\nof listening as if she were saying something that he had longed all his\nlife to hear.\n\n\"Is this Rilla-my-Rilla?\" he asked in a low tone.\n\n\"Yeth,\" said Rilla, and immediately wished she could throw herself\nheadlong down the lighthouse rock or otherwise vanish from a jeering\nworld.\n\nRilla had lisped in early childhood; but she had grown out of it. Only\non occasions of stress and strain did the tendency re-assert itself.\nShe hadn't lisped for a year; and now at this very moment, when she was\nso especially desirous of appearing grown up and sophisticated, she\nmust go and lisp like a baby! It was too mortifying; she felt as if\ntears were going to come into her eyes; the next minute she would\nbe--blubbering--yes, just blubbering--she wished Kenneth would go\naway--she wished he had never come. The party was spoiled. Everything\nhad turned to dust and ashes.\n\nAnd he had called her \"Rilla-my-Rilla\"--not \"Spider\" or \"Kid\" or\n\"Puss,\" as he had been used to call her when he took any notice\nwhatever of her. She did not at all resent his using Walter's pet name\nfor her; it sounded beautifully in his low caressing tones, with just\nthe faintest suggestion of emphasis on the \"my.\" It would have been so\nnice if she had not made a fool of herself. She dared not look up lest\nshe should see laughter in his eyes. So she looked down; and as her\nlashes were very long and dark and her lids very thick and creamy, the\neffect was quite charming and provocative, and Kenneth reflected that\nRilla Blythe was going to be the beauty of the Ingleside girls after\nall. He wanted to make her look up--to catch again that little, demure,\nquestioning glance. She was the prettiest thing at the party, there was\nno doubt of that.\n\nWhat was he saying? Rilla could hardly believe her ears.\n\n\"Can we have a dance?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Rilla. She said it with such a fierce determination not to\nlisp that she fairly blurted the word out. Then she writhed in spirit\nagain. It sounded so bold--so eager--as if she were fairly jumping at\nhim! What would he think of her? Oh, why did dreadful things like this\nhappen, just when a girl wanted to appear at her best?\n\nKenneth drew her in among the dancers.\n\n\"I think this game ankle of mine is good for one hop around, at least,\"\nhe said.\n\n\"How is your ankle?\" said Rilla. Oh, why couldn't she think of\nsomething else to say? She knew he was sick of inquiries about his\nankle. She had heard him say so at Ingleside--heard him tell Di he was\ngoing to wear a placard on his breast announcing to all and sundry that\nthe ankle was improving, etc. And now she must go and ask this stale\nquestion again.\n\nKenneth was tired of inquiries about his ankle. But then he had not\noften been asked about it by lips with such an adorable kissable dent\njust above them. Perhaps that was why he answered very patiently that\nit was getting on well and didn't trouble him much, if he didn't walk\nor stand too long at a time.\n\n\"They tell me it will be as strong as ever in time, but I'll have to\ncut football out this fall.\"\n\nThey danced together and Rilla knew every girl in sight envied her.\nAfter the dance they went down the rock steps and Kenneth found a\nlittle flat and they rowed across the moonlit channel to the\nsand-shore; they walked on the sand till Kenneth's ankle made protest\nand then they sat down among the dunes. Kenneth talked to her as he had\ntalked to Nan and Di. Rilla, overcome with a shyness she did not\nunderstand, could not talk much, and thought he would think her\nfrightfully stupid; but in spite of this it was all very wonderful--the\nexquisite moonlit night, the shining sea, the tiny little wavelets\nswishing on the sand, the cool and freakish wind of night crooning in\nthe stiff grasses on the crest of the dunes, the music sounding faintly\nand sweetly over the channel.\n\n\"'A merry lilt o' moonlight for mermaiden revelry,'\" quoted Kenneth\nsoftly from one of Walter's poems.\n\nAnd just he and she alone together in the glamour of sound and sight!\nIf only her slippers didn't bite so! and if only she could talk\ncleverly like Miss Oliver--nay, if she could only talk as she did\nherself to other boys! But words would not come, she could only listen\nand murmur little commonplace sentences now and again. But perhaps her\ndreamy eyes and her dented lip and her slender throat talked eloquently\nfor her. At any rate Kenneth seemed in no hurry to suggest going back\nand when they did go back supper was in progress. He found a seat for\nher near the window of the lighthouse kitchen and sat on the sill\nbeside her while she ate her ices and cake. Rilla looked about her and\nthought how lovely her first party had been. She would never forget it.\nThe room re-echoed to laughter and jest. Beautiful young eyes sparkled\nand shone. From the pavilion outside came the lilt of the fiddle and\nthe rhythmic steps of the dancers.\n\nThere was a little disturbance among a group of boys crowded about the\ndoor; a young fellow pushed through and halted on the threshold,\nlooking about him rather sombrely. It was Jack Elliott from\nover-harbour--a McGill medical student, a quiet chap not much addicted\nto social doings. He had been invited to the party but had not been\nexpected to come since he had to go to Charlottetown that day and could\nnot be back until late. Yet here he was--and he carried a folded paper\nin his hand.\n\nGertrude Oliver looked at him from her corner and shivered again. She\nhad enjoyed the party herself, after all, for she had foregathered with\na Charlottetown acquaintance who, being a stranger and much older than\nmost of the guests, felt himself rather out of it, and had been glad to\nfall in with this clever girl who could talk of world doings and\noutside events with the zest and vigour of a man. In the pleasure of\nhis society she had forgotten some of her misgivings of the day. Now\nthey suddenly returned to her. What news did Jack Elliott bring? Lines\nfrom an old poem flashed unbidden into her mind--\"there was a sound of\nrevelry by night\"--\"Hush! Hark! A deep sound strikes like a rising\nknell\"--why should she think of that now? Why didn't Jack Elliott\nspeak--if he had anything to tell? Why did he just stand there,\nglowering importantly?\n\n\"Ask him--ask him,\" she said feverishly to Allan Daly. But somebody\nelse had already asked him. The room grew very silent all at once.\nOutside the fiddler had stopped for a rest and there was silence there\ntoo. Afar off they heard the low moan of the gulf--the presage of a\nstorm already on its way up the Atlantic. A girl's laugh drifted up\nfrom the rocks and died away as if frightened out of existence by the\nsudden stillness.\n\n\"England declared war on Germany today,\" said Jack Elliott slowly. \"The\nnews came by wire just as I left town.\"\n\n\"God help us,\" whispered Gertrude Oliver under her breath. \"My\ndream--my dream! The first wave has broken.\" She looked at Allan Daly\nand tried to smile.\n\n\"Is this Armageddon?\" she asked.\n\n\"I am afraid so,\" he said gravely.\n\nA chorus of exclamations had arisen round them--light surprise and idle\ninterest for the most part. Few there realized the import of the\nmessage--fewer still realized that it meant anything to them. Before\nlong the dancing was on again and the hum of pleasure was as loud as\never. Gertrude and Allan Daly talked the news over in low, troubled\ntones. Walter Blythe had turned pale and left the room. Outside he met\nJem, hurrying up the rock steps.\n\n\"Have you heard the news, Jem?\"\n\n\"Yes. The Piper has come. Hurrah! I knew England wouldn't leave France\nin the lurch. I've been trying to get Captain Josiah to hoist the flag\nbut he says it isn't the proper caper till sunrise. Jack says they'll\nbe calling for volunteers tomorrow.\"\n\n\"What a fuss to make over nothing,\" said Mary Vance disdainfully as Jem\ndashed off. She was sitting out with Miller Douglas on a lobster trap\nwhich was not only an unromantic but an uncomfortable seat. But Mary\nand Miller were both supremely happy on it. Miller Douglas was a big,\nstrapping, uncouth lad, who thought Mary Vance's tongue uncommonly\ngifted and Mary Vance's white eyes stars of the first magnitude; and\nneither of them had the least inkling why Jem Blythe wanted to hoist\nthe lighthouse flag. \"What does it matter if there's going to be a war\nover there in Europe? I'm sure it doesn't concern us.\"\n\nWalter looked at her and had one of his odd visitations of prophecy.\n\n\"Before this war is over,\" he said--or something said through his\nlips--\"every man and woman and child in Canada will feel it--you, Mary,\nwill feel it--feel it to your heart's core. You will weep tears of\nblood over it. The Piper has come--and he will pipe until every corner\nof the world has heard his awful and irresistible music. It will be\nyears before the dance of death is over--years, Mary. And in those\nyears millions of hearts will break.\"\n\n\"Fancy now!\" said Mary who always said that when she couldn't think of\nanything else to say. She didn't know what Walter meant but she felt\nuncomfortable. Walter Blythe was always saying odd things. That old\nPiper of his--she hadn't heard anything about him since their playdays\nin Rainbow Valley--and now here he was bobbing up again. She didn't\nlike it, and that was the long and short of it.\n\n\"Aren't you painting it rather strong, Walter?\" asked Harvey Crawford,\ncoming up just then. \"This war won't last for years--it'll be over in a\nmonth or two. England will just wipe Germany off the map in no time.\"\n\n\"Do you think a war for which Germany has been preparing for twenty\nyears will be over in a few weeks?\" said Walter passionately. \"This\nisn't a paltry struggle in a Balkan corner, Harvey. It is a death\ngrapple. Germany comes to conquer or to die. And do you know what will\nhappen if she conquers? Canada will be a German colony.\"\n\n\"Well, I guess a few things will happen before that,\" said Harvey\nshrugging his shoulders. \"The British navy would have to be licked for\none; and for another, Miller here, now, and I, we'd raise a dust,\nwouldn't we, Miller? No Germans need apply for this old country, eh?\"\n\nHarvey ran down the steps laughing.\n\n\"I declare, I think all you boys talk the craziest stuff,\" said Mary\nVance in disgust. She got up and dragged Miller off to the rock-shore.\nIt didn't happen often that they had a chance for a talk together; Mary\nwas determined that this one shouldn't be spoiled by Walter Blythe's\nsilly blather about Pipers and Germans and such like absurd things.\nThey left Walter standing alone on the rock steps, looking out over the\nbeauty of Four Winds with brooding eyes that saw it not.\n\nThe best of the evening was over for Rilla, too. Ever since Jack\nElliott's announcement, she had sensed that Kenneth was no longer\nthinking about her. She felt suddenly lonely and unhappy. It was worse\nthan if he had never noticed her at all. Was life like this--something\ndelightful happening and then, just as you were revelling in it,\nslipping away from you? Rilla told herself pathetically that she felt\nyears older than when she had left home that evening. Perhaps she\ndid--perhaps she was. Who knows? It does not do to laugh at the pangs\nof youth. They are very terrible because youth has not yet learned that\n\"this, too, will pass away.\" Rilla sighed and wished she were home, in\nbed, crying into her pillow.\n\n\"Tired?\" said Kenneth, gently but absently--oh, so absently. He really\ndidn't care a bit whether she were tired or not, she thought.\n\n\"Kenneth,\" she ventured timidly, \"you don't think this war will matter\nmuch to us in Canada, do you?\"\n\n\"Matter? Of course it will matter to the lucky fellows who will be able\nto take a hand. I won't--thanks to this confounded ankle. Rotten luck,\nI call it.\"\n\n\"I don't see why we should fight England's battles,\" cried Rilla.\n\"She's quite able to fight them herself.\"\n\n\"That isn't the point. We are part of the British Empire. It's a family\naffair. We've got to stand by each other. The worst of it is, it will\nbe over before I can be of any use.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that you would really volunteer to go if it wasn't for\nyour ankle? asked Rilla incredulously.\n\n\"Sure I would. You see they'll go by thousands. Jem'll be off, I'll bet\na cent--Walter won't be strong enough yet, I suppose. And Jerry\nMeredith--he'll go! And I was worrying about being out of football this\nyear!\"\n\nRilla was too startled to say anything. Jem--and Jerry! Nonsense! Why\nfather and Mr. Meredith wouldn't allow it. They weren't through\ncollege. Oh, why hadn't Jack Elliott kept his horrid news to himself?\n\nMark Warren came up and asked her to dance. Rilla went, knowing Kenneth\ndidn't care whether she went or stayed. An hour ago on the sand-shore\nhe had been looking at her as if she were the only being of any\nimportance in the world. And now she was nobody. His thoughts were full\nof this Great Game which was to be played out on bloodstained fields\nwith empires for stakes--a Game in which womenkind could have no part.\nWomen, thought Rilla miserably, just had to sit and cry at home. But\nall this was foolishness. Kenneth couldn't go--he admitted that\nhimself--and Walter couldn't--thank goodness for that--and Jem and\nJerry would have more sense. She wouldn't worry--she would enjoy\nherself. But how awkward Mark Warren was! How he bungled his steps!\nWhy, for mercy's sake, did boys try to dance who didn't know the first\nthing about dancing; and who had feet as big as boats? There, he had\nbumped her into somebody! She would never dance with him again!\n\nShe danced with others, though the zest was gone out of the performance\nand she had begun to realize that her slippers hurt her badly. Kenneth\nseemed to have gone--at least nothing was to be seen of him. Her first\nparty was spoiled, though it had seemed so beautiful at one time. Her\nhead ached--her toes burned. And worse was yet to come. She had gone\ndown with some over-harbour friends to the rock-shore where they all\nlingered as dance after dance went on above them. It was cool and\npleasant and they were tired. Rilla sat silent, taking no part in the\ngay conversation. She was glad when someone called down that the\nover-harbour boats were leaving. A laughing scramble up the lighthouse\nrock followed. A few couples still whirled about in the pavilion but\nthe crowd had thinned out. Rilla looked about her for the Glen group.\nShe could not see one of them. She ran into the lighthouse. Still, no\nsign of anybody. In dismay she ran to the rock steps, down which the\nover-harbour guests were hurrying. She could see the boats below--where\nwas Jem's--where was Joe's?\n\n\"Why, Rilla Blythe, I thought you'd be gone home long ago,\" said Mary\nVance, who was waving her scarf at a boat skimming up the channel,\nskippered by Miller Douglas.\n\n\"Where are the rest?\" gasped Rilla.\n\n\"Why, they're gone--Jem went an hour ago--Una had a headache. And the\nrest went with Joe about fifteen minutes ago. See--they're just going\naround Birch Point. I didn't go because it's getting rough and I knew\nI'd be seasick. I don't mind walking home from here. It's only a mile\nand a half. I s'posed you'd gone. Where were you?\"\n\n\"Down on the rocks with Jem and Mollie Crawford. Oh, why didn't they\nlook for me?\"\n\n\"They did--but you couldn't be found. Then they concluded you must have\ngone in the other boat. Don't worry. You can stay all night with me and\nwe'll 'phone up to Ingleside where you are.\"\n\nRilla realized that there was nothing else to do. Her lips trembled and\ntears came into her eyes. She blinked savagely--she would not let Mary\nVance see her crying. But to be forgotten like this! To think nobody\nhad thought it worth while to make sure where she was--not even Walter.\nThen she had a sudden dismayed recollection.\n\n\"My shoes,\" she exclaimed. \"I left them in the boat.\"\n\n\"Well, I never,\" said Mary. \"You're the most thoughtless kid I ever\nsaw. You'll have to ask Hazel Lewison to lend you a pair of shoes.\"\n\n\"I won't.\" cried Rilla, who didn't like the said Hazel. \"I'll go\nbarefoot first.\"\n\nMary shrugged her shoulders.\n\n\"Just as you like. Pride must suffer pain. It'll teach you to be more\ncareful. Well, let's hike.\"\n\nAccordingly they hiked. But to \"hike\" along a deep-rutted, pebbly lane\nin frail, silver-hued slippers with high French heels, is not an\nexhilarating performance. Rilla managed to limp and totter along until\nthey reached the harbour road; but she could go no farther in those\ndetestable slippers. She took them and her dear silk stockings off and\nstarted barefoot. That was not pleasant either; her feet were very\ntender and the pebbles and ruts of the road hurt them. Her blistered\nheels smarted. But physical pain was almost forgotten in the sting of\nhumiliation. This was a nice predicament! If Kenneth Ford could see her\nnow, limping along like a little girl with a stone bruise! Oh, what a\nhorrid way for her lovely party to end! She just had to cry--it was too\nterrible. Nobody cared for her--nobody bothered about her at all. Well,\nif she caught cold from walking home barefoot on a dew-wet road and\nwent into a decline perhaps they would be sorry. She furtively wiped\nher tears away with her scarf--handkerchiefs seemed to have vanished\nlike shoes!--but she could not help sniffling. Worse and worse!\n\n\"You've got a cold, I see,\" said Mary. \"You ought to have known you\nwould, sitting down in the wind on those rocks. Your mother won't let\nyou go out again in a hurry I can tell you. It's certainly been\nsomething of a party. The Lewisons know how to do things, I'll say that\nfor them, though Hazel Lewison is no choice of mine. My, how black she\nlooked when she saw you dancing with Ken Ford. And so did that little\nhussy of an Ethel Reese. What a flirt he is!\"\n\n\"I don't think he's a flirt,\" said Rilla as defiantly as two desperate\nsniffs would let her.\n\n\"You'll know more about men when you're as old as I am,\" said Mary\npatronizingly. \"Mind you, it doesn't do to believe all they tell you.\nDon't let Ken Ford think that all he has to do to get you on a string\nis to drop his handkerchief. Have more spirit than that, child.\"\n\nTo be thus hectored and patronized by Mary Vance was unendurable! And\nit was unendurable to walk on stony roads with blistered heels and bare\nfeet! And it was unendurable to be crying and have no handkerchief and\nnot to be able to stop crying!\n\n\"I'm not thinking\"--sniff--\"about Kenneth\"--sniff--\"Ford\"--two\nsniffs--\"at all,\" cried tortured Rilla.\n\n\"There's no need to fly off the handle, child. You ought to be willing\nto take advice from older people. I saw how you slipped over to the\nsands with Ken and stayed there ever so long with him. Your mother\nwouldn't like it if she knew.\"\n\n\"I'll tell my mother all about it--and Miss Oliver--and Walter,\" Rilla\ngasped between sniffs. \"You sat for hours with Miller Douglas on that\nlobster trap, Mary Vance! What would Mrs. Elliott say to that if she\nknew?\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm not going to quarrel with you,\" said Mary, suddenly retreating\nto high and lofty ground. \"All I say is, you should wait until you're\ngrown-up before you do things like that.\"\n\nRilla gave up trying to hide the fact that she was crying. Everything\nwas spoiled--even that beautiful, dreamy, romantic, moonlit hour with\nKenneth on the sands was vulgarized and cheapened. She loathed Mary\nVance.\n\n\"Why, whatever's wrong?\" cried mystified Mary. \"What are you crying\nfor?\"\n\n\"My feet--hurt so--\" sobbed Rilla clinging to the last shred of her\npride. It was less humiliating to admit crying because of your feet\nthan because--because somebody had been amusing himself with you, and\nyour friends had forgotten you, and other people patronized you.\n\n\"I daresay they do,\" said Mary, not unkindly. \"Never mind. I know where\nthere's a pot of goose-grease in Cornelia's tidy pantry and it beats\nall the fancy cold creams in the world. I'll put some on your heels\nbefore you go to bed.\"\n\nGoose-grease on your heels! So this was what your first party and your\nfirst beau and your first moonlit romance ended in!\n\nRilla gave over crying in sheer disgust at the futility of tears and\nwent to sleep in Mary Vance's bed in the calm of despair. Outside, the\ndawn came greyly in on wings of storm; Captain Josiah, true to his\nword, ran up the Union Jack at the Four Winds Light and it streamed on\nthe fierce wind against the clouded sky like a gallant unquenchable\nbeacon.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\"THE SOUND OF A GOING\"\n\nRilla ran down through the sunlit glory of the maple grove behind\nIngleside, to her favourite nook in Rainbow Valley. She sat down on a\ngreen-mossed stone among the fern, propped her chin on her hands and\nstared unseeingly at the dazzling blue sky of the August afternoon--so\nblue, so peaceful, so unchanged, just as it had arched over the valley\nin the mellow days of late summer ever since she could remember.\n\nShe wanted to be alone--to think things out--to adjust herself, if it\nwere possible, to the new world into which she seemed to have been\ntransplanted with a suddenness and completeness that left her half\nbewildered as to her own identity. Was she--could she be--the same\nRilla Blythe who had danced at Four Winds Light six days ago--only six\ndays ago? It seemed to Rilla that she had lived as much in those six\ndays as in all her previous life--and if it be true that we should\ncount time by heart-throbs she had. That evening, with its hopes and\nfears and triumphs and humiliations, seemed like ancient history now.\nCould she really ever have cried just because she had been forgotten\nand had to walk home with Mary Vance? Ah, thought Rilla sadly, how\ntrivial and absurd such a cause of tears now appeared to her. She could\ncry now with a right good will--but she would not--she must not. What\nwas it mother had said, looking, with her white lips and stricken eyes,\nas Rilla had never seen her mother look before,\n\n \"When our women fail in courage,\n Shall our men be fearless still?\"\n\nYes, that was it. She must be brave--like mother--and Nan--and\nFaith--Faith, who had cried with flashing eyes, \"Oh, if I were only a\nman, to go too!\" Only, when her eyes ached and her throat burned like\nthis she had to hide herself in Rainbow Valley for a little, just to\nthink things out and remember that she wasn't a child any longer--she\nwas grown-up and women had to face things like this. But it\nwas--nice--to get away alone now and then, where nobody could see her\nand where she needn't feel that people thought her a little coward if\nsome tears came in spite of her.\n\nHow sweet and woodsey the ferns smelled! How softly the great feathery\nboughs of the firs waved and murmured over her! How elfinly rang the\nbells of the \"Tree Lovers\"--just a tinkle now and then as the breeze\nswept by! How purple and elusive the haze where incense was being\noffered on many an altar of the hills! How the maple leaves whitened in\nthe wind until the grove seemed covered with pale silvery blossoms!\nEverything was just the same as she had seen it hundreds of times; and\nyet the whole face of the world seemed changed.\n\n\"How wicked I was to wish that something dramatic would happen!\" she\nthought. \"Oh, if we could only have those dear, monotonous, pleasant\ndays back again! I would never, never grumble about them again.\"\n\nRilla's world had tumbled to pieces the very day after the party. As\nthey lingered around the dinner table at Ingleside, talking of the war,\nthe telephone had rung. It was a long-distance call from Charlottetown\nfor Jem. When he had finished talking he hung up the receiver and\nturned around, with a flushed face and glowing eyes. Before he had said\na word his mother and Nan and Di had turned pale. As for Rilla, for the\nfirst time in her life she felt that every one must hear her heart\nbeating and that something had clutched at her throat.\n\n\"They are calling for volunteers in town, father,\" said Jem. \"Scores\nhave joined up already. I'm going in tonight to enlist.\"\n\n\"Oh--Little Jem,\" cried Mrs. Blythe brokenly. She had not called him\nthat for many years--not since the day he had rebelled against it.\n\"Oh--no--no--Little Jem.\"\n\n\"I must, mother. I'm right--am I not, father?\" said Jem.\n\nDr. Blythe had risen. He was very pale, too, and his voice was husky.\nBut he did not hesitate.\n\n\"Yes, Jem, yes--if you feel that way, yes--\"\n\nMrs. Blythe covered her face. Walter stared moodily at his plate. Nan\nand Di clasped each others' hands. Shirley tried to look unconcerned.\nSusan sat as if paralysed, her piece of pie half-eaten on her plate.\nSusan never did finish that piece of pie--a fact which bore eloquent\ntestimony to the upheaval in her inner woman for Susan considered it a\ncardinal offence against civilized society to begin to eat anything and\nnot finish it. That was wilful waste, hens to the contrary\nnotwithstanding.\n\nJem turned to the phone again. \"I must ring the manse. Jerry will want\nto go, too.\"\n\nAt this Nan had cried out \"Oh!\" as if a knife had been thrust into her,\nand rushed from the room. Di followed her. Rilla turned to Walter for\ncomfort but Walter was lost to her in some reverie she could not share.\n\n\"All right,\" Jem was saying, as coolly as if he were arranging the\ndetails of a picnic. \"I thought you would--yes, tonight--the seven\no'clock--meet me at the station. So long.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Dr. dear,\" said Susan. \"I wish you would wake me up. Am I\ndreaming--or am I awake? Does that blessed boy realize what he is\nsaying? Does he mean that he is going to enlist as a soldier? You do\nnot mean to tell me that they want children like him! It is an outrage.\nSurely you and the doctor will not permit it.\"\n\n\"We can't stop him,\" said Mrs. Blythe, chokingly. \"Oh, Gilbert!\"\n\nDr. Blythe came up behind his wife and took her hand gently, looking\ndown into the sweet grey eyes that he had only once before seen filled\nwith such imploring anguish as now. They both thought of that other\ntime--the day years ago in the House of Dreams when little Joyce had\ndied.\n\n\"Would you have him stay, Anne--when the others are going--when he\nthinks it his duty--would you have him so selfish and small-souled?\"\n\n\"No--no! But--oh--our first-born son--he's only a lad--Gilbert--I'll\ntry to be brave after a while--just now I can't. It's all come so\nsuddenly. Give me time.\"\n\nThe doctor and his wife went out of the room. Jem had gone--Walter had\ngone--Shirley got up to go. Rilla and Susan remained staring at each\nother across the deserted table. Rilla had not yet cried--she was too\nstunned for tears. Then she saw that Susan was crying--Susan, whom she\nhad never seen shed a tear before.\n\n\"Oh, Susan, will he really go?\" she asked.\n\n\"It--it--it is just ridiculous, that is what it is,\" said Susan.\n\nShe wiped away her tears, gulped resolutely and got up.\n\n\"I am going to wash the dishes. That has to be done, even if everybody\nhas gone crazy. There now, dearie, do not you cry. Jem will go, most\nlikely--but the war will be over long before he gets anywhere near it.\nLet us take a brace and not worry your poor mother.\"\n\n\"In the Enterprise today it was reported that Lord Kitchener says the\nwar will last three years,\" said Rilla dubiously.\n\n\"I am not acquainted with Lord Kitchener,\" said Susan, composedly, \"but\nI dare say he makes mistakes as often as other people. Your father says\nit will be over in a few months and I have as much faith in his opinion\nas I have in Lord Anybody's. So just let us be calm and trust in the\nAlmighty and get this place tidied up. I am done with crying which is a\nwaste of time and discourages everybody.\"\n\nJem and Jerry went to Charlottetown that night and two days later they\ncame back in khaki. The Glen hummed with excitement over it. Life at\nIngleside had suddenly become a tense, strained, thrilling thing. Mrs.\nBlythe and Nan were brave and smiling and wonderful. Already Mrs.\nBlythe and Miss Cornelia were organizing a Red Cross. The doctor and\nMr. Meredith were rounding up the men for a Patriotic Society. Rilla,\nafter the first shock, reacted to the romance of it all, in spite of\nher heartache. Jem certainly looked magnificent in his uniform. It was\nsplendid to think of the lads of Canada answering so speedily and\nfearlessly and uncalculatingly to the call of their country. Rilla\ncarried her head high among the girls whose brothers had not so\nresponded. In her diary she wrote:\n\n \"He goes to do what I had done\n Had Douglas's daughter been his son,\"\n\nand was sure she meant it. If she were a boy of course she would go,\ntoo! She hadn't the least doubt of that.\n\nShe wondered if it was very dreadful of her to feel glad that Walter\nhadn't got strong as soon as they had wished after the fever.\n\n\"I couldn't bear to have Walter go,\" she wrote. \"I love Jem ever so\nmuch but Walter means more to me than anyone in the world and I would\ndie if he had to go. He seems so changed these days. He hardly ever\ntalks to me. I suppose he wants to go, too, and feels badly because he\ncan't. He doesn't go about with Jem and Jerry at all. I shall never\nforget Susan's face when Jem came home in his khaki. It worked and\ntwisted as if she were going to cry, but all she said was, 'You look\nalmost like a man in that, Jem.' Jem laughed. He never minds because\nSusan thinks him just a child still. Everybody seems busy but me. I\nwish there was something I could do but there doesn't seem to be\nanything. Mother and Nan and Di are busy all the time and I just wander\nabout like a lonely ghost. What hurts me terribly, though, is that\nmother's smiles, and Nan's, just seem put on from the outside. Mother's\neyes never laugh now. It makes me feel that I shouldn't laugh\neither--that it's wicked to feel laughy. And it's so hard for me to\nkeep from laughing, even if Jem is going to be a soldier. But when I\nlaugh I don't enjoy it either, as I used to do. There's something\nbehind it all that keeps hurting me--especially when I wake up in the\nnight. Then I cry because I am afraid that Kitchener of Khartoum is\nright and the war will last for years and Jem may be--but no, I won't\nwrite it. It would make me feel as if it were really going to happen.\nThe other day Nan said, 'Nothing can ever be quite the same for any of\nus again.' It made me feel rebellious. Why shouldn't things be the same\nagain--when everything is over and Jem and Jerry are back? We'll all be\nhappy and jolly again and these days will seem just like a bad dream.\n\n\"The coming of the mail is the most exciting event of every day now.\nFather just snatches the paper--I never saw father snatch before--and\nthe rest of us crowd round and look at the headlines over his shoulder.\nSusan vows she does not and will not believe a word the papers say but\nshe always comes to the kitchen door, and listens and then goes back,\nshaking her head. She is terribly indignant all the time, but she cooks\nup all the things Jem likes especially, and she did not make a single\nbit of fuss when she found Monday asleep on the spare-room bed\nyesterday right on top of Mrs. Rachel Lynde's apple-leaf spread. 'The\nAlmighty only knows where your master will be having to sleep before\nlong, you poor dumb beast,' she said as she put him quite gently out.\nBut she never relents towards Doc. She says the minute he saw Jem in\nkhaki he turned into Mr. Hyde then and there and she thinks that ought\nto be proof enough of what he really is. Susan is funny, but she is an\nold dear. Shirley says she is one half angel and the other half good\ncook. But then Shirley is the only one of us she never scolds.\n\n\"Faith Meredith is wonderful. I think she and Jem are really engaged\nnow. She goes about with a shining light in her eyes, but her smiles\nare a little stiff and starched, just like mother's. I wonder if I\ncould be as brave as she is if I had a lover and he was going to the\nwar. It is bad enough when it is your brother. Bruce Meredith cried all\nnight, Mrs. Meredith says, when he heard Jem and Jerry were going. And\nhe wanted to know if the 'K of K.' his father talked about was the King\nof Kings. He is the dearest kiddy. I just love him--though I don't\nreally care much for children. I don't like babies one bit--though when\nI say so people look at me as if I had said something perfectly\nshocking. Well, I don't, and I've got to be honest about it. I don't\nmind looking at a nice clean baby if somebody else holds it--but I\nwouldn't touch it for anything and I don't feel a single real spark of\ninterest in it. Gertrude Oliver says she just feels the same. (She is\nthe most honest person I know. She never pretends anything.) She says\nbabies bore her until they are old enough to talk and then she likes\nthem--but still a good ways off. Mother and Nan and Di all adore babies\nand seem to think I'm unnatural because I don't.\n\n\"I haven't seen Kenneth since the night of the party. He was here one\nevening after Jem came back but I happened to be away. I don't think he\nmentioned me at all--at least nobody told me he did and I was\ndetermined I wouldn't ask--but I don't care in the least. All that\nmatters absolutely nothing to me now. The only thing that does matter\nis that Jem has volunteered for active service and will be going to\nValcartier in a few more days--my big, splendid brother Jem. Oh, I'm so\nproud of him!\n\n\"I suppose Kenneth would enlist too if it weren't for his ankle. I\nthink that is quite providential. He is his mother's only son and how\ndreadful she would feel if he went. Only sons should never think of\ngoing!\"\n\nWalter came wandering through the valley as Rilla sat there, with his\nhead bent and his hands clasped behind him. When he saw Rilla he turned\nabruptly away; then as abruptly he turned and came back to her.\n\n\"Rilla-my-Rilla, what are you thinking of?\"\n\n\"Everything is so changed, Walter,\" said Rilla wistfully. \"Even\nyou--you're changed. A week ago we were all so happy--and--and--now I\njust can't find myself at all. I'm lost.\"\n\nWalter sat down on a neighbouring stone and took Rilla's little\nappealing hand.\n\n\"I'm afraid our old world has come to an end, Rilla. We've got to face\nthat fact.\"\n\n\"It's so terrible to think of Jem,\" pleaded Rilla. \"Sometimes I forget\nfor a little while what it really means and feel excited and proud--and\nthen it comes over me again like a cold wind.\"\n\n\"I envy Jem!\" said Walter moodily.\n\n\"Envy Jem! Oh, Walter you--you don't want to go too.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Walter, gazing straight before him down the emerald vistas\nof the valley, \"no, I don't want to go. That's just the trouble. Rilla,\nI'm afraid to go. I'm a coward.\"\n\n\"You're not!\" Rilla burst out angrily. \"Why, anybody would be afraid to\ngo. You might be--why, you might be killed.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't mind that if it didn't hurt,\" muttered Walter. \"I don't\nthink I'm afraid of death itself--it's of the pain that might come\nbefore death--it wouldn't be so bad to die and have it over--but to\nkeep on dying! Rilla, I've always been afraid of pain--you know that. I\ncan't help it--I shudder when I think of the possibility of being\nmangled or--or blinded. Rilla, I cannot face that thought. To be\nblind--never to see the beauty of the world again--moonlight on Four\nWinds--the stars twinkling through the fir-trees--mist on the gulf. I\nought to go--I ought to want to go--but I don't--I hate the thought of\nit--I'm ashamed--ashamed.\"\n\n\"But, Walter, you couldn't go anyhow,\" said Rilla piteously. She was\nsick with a new terror that Walter would go after all. \"You're not\nstrong enough.\"\n\n\"I am. I've felt as fit as ever I did this last month. I'd pass any\nexamination--I know it. Everybody thinks I'm not strong yet--and I'm\nskulking behind that belief. I--I should have been a girl,\" Walter\nconcluded in a burst of passionate bitterness.\n\n\"Even if you were strong enough, you oughtn't to go,\" sobbed Rilla.\n\"What would mother do? She's breaking her heart over Jem. It would kill\nher to see you both go.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm not going--don't worry. I tell you I'm afraid to go--afraid. I\ndon't mince the matter to myself. It's a relief to own up even to you,\nRilla. I wouldn't confess it to anybody else--Nan and Di would despise\nme. But I hate the whole thing--the horror, the pain, the ugliness. War\nisn't a khaki uniform or a drill parade--everything I've read in old\nhistories haunts me. I lie awake at night and see things that have\nhappened--see the blood and filth and misery of it all. And a bayonet\ncharge! If I could face the other things I could never face that. It\nturns me sick to think of it--sicker even to think of giving it than\nreceiving it--to think of thrusting a bayonet through another man.\"\nWalter writhed and shuddered. \"I think of these things all the\ntime--and it doesn't seem to me that Jem and Jerry ever think of them.\nThey laugh and talk about 'potting Huns'! But it maddens me to see them\nin the khaki. And they think I'm grumpy because I'm not fit to go.\"\n\nWalter laughed bitterly. \"It is not a nice thing to feel yourself a\ncoward.\" But Rilla got her arms about him and cuddled her head on his\nshoulder. She was so glad he didn't want to go--for just one minute she\nhad been horribly frightened. And it was so nice to have Walter\nconfiding his troubles to her--to her, not Di. She didn't feel so\nlonely and superfluous any longer.\n\n\"Don't you despise me, Rilla-my-Rilla?\" asked Walter wistfully.\nSomehow, it hurt him to think Rilla might despise him--hurt him as much\nas if it had been Di. He realized suddenly how very fond he was of this\nadoring kid sister with her appealing eyes and troubled, girlish face.\n\n\"No, I don't. Why, Walter, hundreds of people feel just as you do. You\nknow what that verse of Shakespeare in the old Fifth Reader says--'the\nbrave man is not he who feels no fear.'\"\n\n\"No--but it is 'he whose noble soul its fear subdues.' I don't do that.\nWe can't gloss it over, Rilla. I'm a coward.\"\n\n\"You're not. Think of how you fought Dan Reese long ago.\"\n\n\"One spurt of courage isn't enough for a lifetime.\"\n\n\"Walter, one time I heard father say that the trouble with you was a\nsensitive nature and a vivid imagination. You feel things before they\nreally come--feel them all alone when there isn't anything to help you\nbear them--to take away from them. It isn't anything to be ashamed of.\nWhen you and Jem got your hands burned when the grass was fired on the\nsand-hills two years ago Jem made twice the fuss over the pain that you\ndid. As for this horrid old war, there'll be plenty to go without you.\nIt won't last long.\"\n\n\"I wish I could believe it. Well, it's supper-time, Rilla. You'd better\nrun. I don't want anything.\"\n\n\"Neither do I. I couldn't eat a mouthful. Let me stay here with you,\nWalter. It's such a comfort to talk things over with someone. The rest\nall think that I'm too much of a baby to understand.\"\n\nSo they two sat there in the old valley until the evening star shone\nthrough a pale-grey, gauzy cloud over the maple grove, and a fragrant\ndewy darkness filled their little sylvan dell. It was one of the\nevenings Rilla was to treasure in remembrance all her life--the first\none on which Walter had ever talked to her as if she were a woman and\nnot a child. They comforted and strengthened each other. Walter felt,\nfor the time being at least, that it was not such a despicable thing\nafter all to dread the horror of war; and Rilla was glad to be made the\nconfidante of his struggles--to sympathize with and encourage him. She\nwas of importance to somebody.\n\nWhen they went back to Ingleside they found callers sitting on the\nveranda. Mr. and Mrs. Meredith had come over from the manse, and Mr.\nand Mrs. Norman Douglas had come up from the farm. Cousin Sophia was\nthere also, sitting with Susan in the shadowy background. Mrs. Blythe\nand Nan and Di were away, but Dr. Blythe was home and so was Dr.\nJekyll, sitting in golden majesty on the top step. And of course they\nwere all talking of the war, except Dr. Jekyll who kept his own counsel\nand looked contempt as only a cat can. When two people foregathered in\nthose days they talked of the war; and old Highland Sandy of the\nHarbour Head talked of it when he was alone and hurled anathemas at the\nKaiser across all the acres of his farm. Walter slipped away, not\ncaring to see or be seen, but Rilla sat down on the steps, where the\ngarden mint was dewy and pungent. It was a very calm evening with a\ndim, golden afterlight irradiating the glen. She felt happier than at\nany time in the dreadful week that had passed. She was no longer\nhaunted by the fear that Walter would go.\n\n\"I'd go myself if I was twenty years younger,\" Norman Douglas was\nshouting. Norman always shouted when he was excited. \"I'd show the\nKaiser a thing or two! Did I ever say there wasn't a hell? Of course\nthere's a hell--dozens of hells--hundreds of hells--where the Kaiser\nand all his brood are bound for.\"\n\n\"I knew this war was coming,\" said Mrs. Norman triumphantly. \"I saw it\ncoming right along. I could have told all those stupid Englishmen what\nwas ahead of them. I told you, John Meredith, years ago what the Kaiser\nwas up to but you wouldn't believe it. You said he would never plunge\nthe world in war. Who was right about the Kaiser, John? You--or I? Tell\nme that.\"\n\n\"You were, I admit,\" said Mr. Meredith.\n\n\"It's too late to admit it now,\" said Mrs. Norman, shaking her head, as\nif to intimate that if John Meredith had admitted it sooner there might\nhave been no war.\n\n\"Thank God, England's navy is ready,\" said the doctor.\n\n\"Amen to that,\" nodded Mrs. Norman. \"Bat-blind as most of them were\nsomebody had foresight enough to see to that.\"\n\n\"Maybe England'll manage not to get into trouble over it,\" said Cousin\nSophia plaintively. \"I dunno. But I'm much afraid.\"\n\n\"One would suppose that England was in trouble over it already, up to\nher neck, Sophia Crawford,\" said Susan. \"But your ways of thinking are\nbeyond me and always were. It is my opinion that the British Navy will\nsettle Germany in a jiffy and that we are all getting worked up over\nnothing.\"\n\nSusan spat out the words as if she wanted to convince herself more than\nanybody else. She had her little store of homely philosophies to guide\nher through life, but she had nothing to buckler her against the\nthunderbolts of the week that had just passed. What had an honest,\nhard-working, Presbyterian old maid of Glen St. Mary to do with a war\nthousands of miles away? Susan felt that it was indecent that she\nshould have to be disturbed by it.\n\n\"The British army will settle Germany,\" shouted Norman. \"Just wait till\nit gets into line and the Kaiser will find that real war is a different\nthing from parading round Berlin with your moustaches cocked up.\"\n\n\"Britain hasn't got an army,\" said Mrs. Norman emphatically. \"You\nneedn't glare at me, Norman. Glaring won't make soldiers out of timothy\nstalks. A hundred thousand men will just be a mouthful for Germany's\nmillions.\"\n\n\"There'll be some tough chewing in the mouthful, I reckon,\" persisted\nNorman valiantly. \"Germany'll break her teeth on it. Don't you tell me\none Britisher isn't a match for ten foreigners. I could polish off a\ndozen of 'em myself with both hands tied behind my back!\"\n\n\"I am told,\" said Susan, \"that old Mr. Pryor does not believe in this\nwar. I am told that he says England went into it just because she was\njealous of Germany and that she did not really care in the least what\nhappened to Belgium.\"\n\n\"I believe he's been talking some such rot,\" said Norman. \"I haven't\nheard him. When I do, Whiskers-on-the-moon won't know what happened to\nhim. That precious relative of mine, Kitty Alec, holds forth to the\nsame effect, I understand. Not before me, though--somehow, folks don't\nindulge in that kind of conversation in my presence. Lord love you,\nthey've a kind of presentiment, so to speak, that it wouldn't be\nhealthy for their complaint.\"\n\n\"I am much afraid that this war has been sent as a punishment for our\nsins,\" said Cousin Sophia, unclasping her pale hands from her lap and\nreclasping them solemnly over her stomach. \"'The world is very\nevil--the times are waxing late.'\"\n\n\"Parson here's got something of the same idea,\" chuckled Norman.\n\"Haven't you, Parson? That's why you preached t'other night on the text\n'Without shedding of blood there is no remission of sins.' I didn't\nagree with you--wanted to get up in the pew and shout out that there\nwasn't a word of sense in what you were saying, but Ellen, here, she\nheld me down. I never have any fun sassing parsons since I got married.\"\n\n\"Without shedding of blood there is no anything,\" said Mr. Meredith, in\nthe gentle dreamy way which had an unexpected trick of convincing his\nhearers. \"Everything, it seems to me, has to be purchased by\nself-sacrifice. Our race has marked every step of its painful ascent\nwith blood. And now torrents of it must flow again. No, Mrs. Crawford,\nI don't think the war has been sent as a punishment for sin. I think it\nis the price humanity must pay for some blessing--some advance great\nenough to be worth the price--which we may not live to see but which\nour children's children will inherit.\"\n\n\"If Jerry is killed will you feel so fine about it?\" demanded Norman,\nwho had been saying things like that all his life and never could be\nmade to see any reason why he shouldn't. \"Now, never mind kicking me in\nthe shins, Ellen. I want to see if Parson meant what he said or if it\nwas just a pulpit frill.\"\n\nMr. Meredith's face quivered. He had had a terrible hour alone in his\nstudy on the night Jem and Jerry had gone to town. But he answered\nquietly.\n\n\"Whatever I felt, it could not alter my belief--my assurance that a\ncountry whose sons are ready to lay down their lives in her defence\nwill win a new vision because of their sacrifice.\"\n\n\"You do mean it, Parson. I can always tell when people mean what they\nsay. It's a gift that was born in me. Makes me a terror to most\nparsons, that! But I've never caught you yet saying anything you didn't\nmean. I'm always hoping I will--that's what reconciles me to going to\nchurch. It'd be such a comfort to me--such a weapon to batter Ellen\nhere with when she tries to civilize me. Well, I'm off over the road to\nsee Ab. Crawford a minute. The gods be good to you all.\"\n\n\"The old pagan!\" muttered Susan, as Norman strode away. She did not\ncare if Ellen Douglas did hear her. Susan could never understand why\nfire did not descend from heaven upon Norman Douglas when he insulted\nministers the way he did. But the astonishing thing was Mr. Meredith\nseemed really to like his brother-in-law.\n\nRilla wished they would talk of something besides war. She had heard\nnothing else for a week and she was really a little tired of it. Now\nthat she was relieved from her haunting fear that Walter would want to\ngo it made her quite impatient. But she supposed--with a sigh--that\nthere would be three or four months of it yet.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nSUSAN, RILLA, AND DOG MONDAY MAKE A RESOLUTION\n\nThe big living-room at Ingleside was snowed over with drifts of white\ncotton. Word had come from Red Cross headquarters that sheets and\nbandages would be required. Nan and Di and Rilla were hard at work.\nMrs. Blythe and Susan were upstairs in the boys' room, engaged in a\nmore personal task. With dry, anguished eyes they were packing up Jem's\nbelongings. He must leave for Valcartier the next morning. They had\nbeen expecting the word but it was none the less dreadful when it came.\n\nRilla was basting the hem of a sheet for the first time in her life.\nWhen the word had come that Jem must go she had her cry out among the\npines in Rainbow Valley and then she had gone to her mother.\n\n\"Mother, I want to do something. I'm only a girl--I can't do anything\nto win the war--but I must do something to help at home.\"\n\n\"The cotton has come up for the sheets,\" said Mrs. Blythe. \"You can\nhelp Nan and Di make them up. And Rilla, don't you think you could\norganize a Junior Red Cross among the young girls? I think they would\nlike it better and do better work by themselves than if mixed up with\nthe older people.\"\n\n\"But, mother--I've never done anything like that.\"\n\n\"We will all have to do a great many things in the months ahead of us\nthat we have never done before, Rilla.\"\n\n\"Well\"--Rilla took the plunge--\"I'll try, mother--if you'll tell me how\nto begin. I have been thinking it all over and I have decided that I\nmust be as brave and heroic and unselfish as I can possibly be.\"\n\nMrs. Blythe did not smile at Rilla's italics. Perhaps she did not feel\nlike smiling or perhaps she detected a real grain of serious purpose\nbehind Rilla's romantic pose. So here was Rilla hemming sheets and\norganizing a Junior Red Cross in her thoughts as she hemmed; moreover,\nshe was enjoying it--the organizing that is, not the hemming. It was\ninteresting and Rilla discovered a certain aptitude in herself for it\nthat surprised her. Who would be president? Not she. The older girls\nwould not like that. Irene Howard? No, somehow Irene was not quite as\npopular as she deserved to be. Marjorie Drew? No, Marjorie hadn't\nenough backbone. She was too prone to agree with the last speaker.\nBetty Mead--calm, capable, tactful Betty--the very one! And Una\nMeredith for treasurer; and, if they were very insistent, they might\nmake her, Rilla, secretary. As for the various committees, they must be\nchosen after the Juniors were organized, but Rilla knew just who should\nbe put on which. They would meet around--and there must be no\neats--Rilla knew she would have a pitched battle with Olive Kirk over\nthat--and everything should be strictly business-like and\nconstitutional. Her minute book should be covered in white with a Red\nCross on the cover--and wouldn't it be nice to have some kind of\nuniform which they could all wear at the concerts they would have to\nget up to raise money--something simple but smart?\n\n\"You have basted the top hem of that sheet on one side and the bottom\nhem on the other,\" said Di.\n\nRilla picked out her stitches and reflected that she hated sewing.\nRunning the Junior Reds would be much more interesting.\n\nMrs. Blythe was saying upstairs, \"Susan, do you remember that first day\nJem lifted up his little arms to me and called me 'mo'er'--the very\nfirst word he ever tried to say?\"\n\n\"You could not mention anything about that blessed baby that I do not\nand will not remember till my dying day,\" said Susan drearily.\n\n\"Susan, I keep thinking today of once when he cried for me in the\nnight. He was just a few months old. Gilbert didn't want me to go to\nhim--he said the child was well and warm and that it would be fostering\nbad habits in him. But I went--and took him up--I can feel that tight\nclinging of his little arms round my neck yet. Susan, if I hadn't gone\nthat night, twenty-one years ago, and taken my baby up when he cried\nfor me I couldn't face tomorrow morning.\"\n\n\"I do not know how we are going to face it anyhow, Mrs. Dr. dear. But\ndo not tell me that it will be the final farewell. He will be back on\nleave before he goes overseas, will he not?\"\n\n\"We hope so but we are not very sure. I am making up my mind that he\nwill not, so that there will be no disappointment to bear. Susan, I am\ndetermined that I will send my boy off tomorrow with a smile. He shall\nnot carry away with him the remembrance of a weak mother who had not\nthe courage to send when he had the courage to go. I hope none of us\nwill cry.\"\n\n\"I am not going to cry, Mrs. Dr. dear, and that you may tie to, but\nwhether I shall manage to smile or not will be as Providence ordains\nand as the pit of my stomach feels. Have you room there for this\nfruit-cake? And the shortbread? And the mince-pie? That blessed boy\nshall not starve, whether they have anything to eat in that Quebec\nplace or not. Everything seems to be changing all at once, does it not?\nEven the old cat at the manse has passed away. He breathed his last at\na quarter to ten last night and Bruce is quite heart-broken, they tell\nme.\"\n\n\"It's time that pussy went where good cats go. He must be at least\nfifteen years old. He has seemed so lonely since Aunt Martha died.\"\n\n\"I should not have lamented, Mrs. Dr. dear, if that Hyde-beast had died\nalso. He has been Mr. Hyde most of the time since Jem came home in\nkhaki, and that has a meaning I will maintain. I do not know what\nMonday will do when Jem is gone. The creature just goes about with a\nhuman look in his eyes that takes all the good out of me when I see it.\nEllen West used to be always railing at the Kaiser and we thought her\ncrazy, but now I see that there was a method in her madness. This tray\nis packed, Mrs. Dr. dear, and I will go down and put in my best licks\npreparing supper. I wish I knew when I would cook another supper for\nJem but such things are hidden from our eyes.\"\n\nJem Blythe and Jerry Meredith left next morning. It was a dull day,\nthreatening rain, and the clouds lay in heavy grey rolls over the sky;\nbut almost everybody in the Glen and Four Winds and Harbour Head and\nUpper Glen and over-harbour--except Whiskers-on-the-moon--was there to\nsee them off. The Blythe family and the Meredith family were all\nsmiling. Even Susan, as Providence did ordain, wore a smile, though the\neffect was somewhat more painful than tears would have been. Faith and\nNan were very pale and very gallant. Rilla thought she would get on\nvery well if something in her throat didn't choke her, and if her lips\ndidn't take such spells of trembling. Dog Monday was there, too. Jem\nhad tried to say good-bye to him at Ingleside but Monday implored so\neloquently that Jem relented and let him go to the station. He kept\nclose to Jem's legs and watched every movement of his beloved master.\n\n\"I can't bear that dog's eyes,\" said Mrs. Meredith.\n\n\"The beast has more sense than most humans,\" said Mary Vance. \"Well,\ndid we any of us ever think we'd live to see this day? I bawled all\nnight to think of Jem and Jerry going like this. I think they're plumb\nderanged. Miller got a maggot in his head about going but I soon talked\nhim out of it--likewise his aunt said a few touching things. For once\nin our lives Kitty Alec and I agree. It's a miracle that isn't likely\nto happen again. There's Ken, Rilla.\"\n\nRilla knew Kenneth was there. She had been acutely conscious of it from\nthe moment he had sprung from Leo West's buggy. Now he came up to her\nsmiling.\n\n\"Doing the brave-smiling-sister-stunt, I see. What a crowd for the Glen\nto muster! Well, I'm off home in a few days myself.\"\n\nA queer little wind of desolation that even Jem's going had not caused\nblew over Rilla's spirit.\n\n\"Why? You have another month of vacation.\"\n\n\"Yes--but I can't hang around Four Winds and enjoy myself when the\nworld's on fire like this. It's me for little old Toronto where I'll\nfind some way of helping in spite of this bally ankle. I'm not looking\nat Jem and Jerry--makes me too sick with envy. You girls are great--no\ncrying, no grim endurance. The boys'll go off with a good taste in\ntheir mouths. I hope Persis and mother will be as game when my turn\ncomes.\"\n\n\"Oh, Kenneth--the war will be over before your turn cometh.\"\n\nThere! She had lisped again. Another great moment of life spoiled!\nWell, it was her fate. And anyhow, nothing mattered. Kenneth was off\nalready--he was talking to Ethel Reese, who was dressed, at seven in\nthe morning, in the gown she had worn to the dance, and was crying.\nWhat on earth had Ethel to cry about? None of the Reeses were in khaki.\nRilla wanted to cry, too--but she would not. What was that horrid old\nMrs. Drew saying to mother, in that melancholy whine of hers? \"I don't\nknow how you can stand this, Mrs. Blythe. I couldn't if it was my pore\nboy.\" And mother--oh, mother could always be depended on! How her grey\neyes flashed in her pale face. \"It might have been worse, Mrs. Drew. I\nmight have had to urge him to go.\" Mrs. Drew did not understand but\nRilla did. She flung up her head. Her brother did not have to be urged\nto go.\n\nRilla found herself standing alone and listening to disconnected scraps\nof talk as people walked up and down past her.\n\n\"I told Mark to wait and see if they asked for a second lot of men. If\nthey did I'd let him go--but they won't,\" said Mrs. Palmer Burr.\n\n\"I think I'll have it made with a crush girdle of velvet,\" said Bessie\nClow.\n\n\"I'm frightened to look at my husband's face for fear I'll see in it\nthat he wants to go too,\" said a little over-harbour bride.\n\n\"I'm scared stiff,\" said whimsical Mrs. Jim Howard. \"I'm scared Jim\nwill enlist--and I'm scared he won't.\"\n\n\"The war will be over by Christmas,\" said Joe Vickers.\n\n\"Let them European nations fight it out between them,\" said Abner Reese.\n\n\"When he was a boy I gave him many a good trouncing,\" shouted Norman\nDouglas, who seemed to be referring to some one high in military\ncircles in Charlottetown. \"Yes, sir, I walloped him well, big gun as he\nis now.\"\n\n\"The existence of the British Empire is at stake,\" said the Methodist\nminister.\n\n\"There's certainly something about uniforms,\" sighed Irene Howard.\n\n\"It's a commercial war when all is said and done and not worth one drop\nof good Canadian blood,\" said a stranger from the shore hotel.\n\n\"The Blythe family are taking it easy,\" said Kate Drew.\n\n\"Them young fools are just going for adventure,\" growled Nathan\nCrawford.\n\n\"I have absolute confidence in Kitchener,\" said the over-harbour doctor.\n\nIn these ten minutes Rilla passed through a dizzying succession of\nanger, laughter, contempt, depression and inspiration. Oh, people\nwere--funny! How little they understood. \"Taking it easy,\" indeed--when\neven Susan hadn't slept a wink all night! Kate Drew always was a minx.\n\nRilla felt as if she were in some fantastic nightmare. Were these the\npeople who, three weeks ago, were talking of crops and prices and local\ngossip?\n\nThere--the train was coming--mother was holding Jem's hand--Dog Monday\nwas licking it--everybody was saying good-bye--the train was in! Jem\nkissed Faith before everybody--old Mrs. Drew whooped hysterically--the\nmen, led by Kenneth, cheered--Rilla felt Jem seize her hand--\"Good-bye,\nSpider\"--somebody kissed her cheek--she believed it was Jerry but never\nwas sure--they were off--the train was pulling out--Jem and Jerry were\nwaving to everybody--everybody was waving back--mother and Nan were\nsmiling still, but as if they had just forgotten to take the smile\noff--Monday was howling dismally and being forcibly restrained by the\nMethodist minister from tearing after the train--Susan was waving her\nbest bonnet and hurrahing like a man--had she gone crazy?--the train\nrounded a curve. They had gone.\n\nRilla came to herself with a gasp. There was a sudden quiet. Nothing to\ndo now but to go home--and wait. The doctor and Mrs. Blythe walked off\ntogether--so did Nan and Faith--so did John Meredith and Rosemary.\nWalter and Una and Shirley and Di and Carl and Rilla went in a group.\nSusan had put her bonnet back on her head, hindside foremost, and\nstalked grimly off alone. Nobody missed Dog Monday at first. When they\ndid Shirley went back for him. He found Dog Monday curled up in one of\nthe shipping-sheds near the station and tried to coax him home. Dog\nMonday would not move. He wagged his tail to show he had no hard\nfeelings but no blandishments availed to budge him.\n\n\"Guess Monday has made up his mind to wait there till Jem comes back,\"\nsaid Shirley, trying to laugh as he rejoined the rest. This was exactly\nwhat Dog Monday had done. His dear master had gone--he, Monday, had\nbeen deliberately and of malice aforethought prevented from going with\nhim by a demon disguised in the garb of a Methodist minister.\nWherefore, he, Monday, would wait there until the smoking, snorting\nmonster, which had carried his hero off, carried him back.\n\nAy, wait there, little faithful dog with the soft, wistful, puzzled\neyes. But it will be many a long bitter day before your boyish comrade\ncomes back to you.\n\nThe doctor was away on a case that night and Susan stalked into Mrs.\nBlythe's room on her way to bed to see if her adored Mrs. Dr. dear were\n\"comfortable and composed.\" She paused solemnly at the foot of the bed\nand solemnly declared,\n\n\"Mrs. Dr. dear, I have made up my mind to be a heroine.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Dr. dear\" found herself violently inclined to laugh--which was\nmanifestly unfair, since she had not laughed when Rilla had announced a\nsimilar heroic determination. To be sure, Rilla was a slim, white-robed\nthing, with a flower-like face and starry young eyes aglow with\nfeeling; whereas Susan was arrayed in a grey flannel nightgown of\nstrait simplicity, and had a strip of red woollen worsted tied around\nher grey hair as a charm against neuralgia. But that should not make\nany vital difference. Was it not the spirit that counted? Yet Mrs.\nBlythe was hard put to it not to laugh.\n\n\"I am not,\" proceeded Susan firmly, \"going to lament or whine or\nquestion the wisdom of the Almighty any more as I have been doing\nlately. Whining and shirking and blaming Providence do not get us\nanywhere. We have just got to grapple with whatever we have to do\nwhether it is weeding the onion patch, or running the Government. I\nshall grapple. Those blessed boys have gone to war; and we women, Mrs.\nDr. dear, must tarry by the stuff and keep a stiff upper lip.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nA WAR-BABY AND A SOUP TUREEN\n\n\"Liege and Namur--and now Brussels!\" The doctor shook his head. \"I\ndon't like it--I don't like it.\"\n\n\"Do not you lose heart, Dr. dear; they were just defended by\nforeigners,\" said Susan superbly. \"Wait you till the Germans come\nagainst the British; there will be a very different story to tell and\nthat you may tie to.\"\n\nThe doctor shook his head again, but a little less gravely; perhaps\nthey all shared subconsciously in Susan's belief that \"the thin grey\nline\" was unbreakable, even by the victorious rush of Germany's ready\nmillions. At any rate, when the terrible day came--the first of many\nterrible days--with the news that the British army was driven back they\nstared at each other in blank dismay.\n\n\"It--it can't be true,\" gasped Nan, taking a brief refuge in temporary\nincredulity.\n\n\"I felt that there was to be bad news today,\" said Susan, \"for that\ncat-creature turned into Mr. Hyde this morning without rhyme or reason\nfor it, and that was no good omen.\"\n\n\"'A broken, a beaten, but not a demoralized, army,'\" muttered the\ndoctor, from a London dispatch. \"Can it be England's army of which such\na thing is said?\"\n\n\"It will be a long time now before the war is ended,\" said Mrs. Blythe\ndespairingly.\n\nSusan's faith, which had for a moment been temporarily submerged, now\nreappeared triumphantly.\n\n\"Remember, Mrs. Dr. dear, that the British army is not the British\nnavy. Never forget that. And the Russians are on their way, too, though\nRussians are people I do not know much about and consequently will not\ntie to.\"\n\n\"The Russians will not be in time to save Paris,\" said Walter gloomily.\n\"Paris is the heart of France--and the road to it is open. Oh, I\nwish\"--he stopped abruptly and went out.\n\nAfter a paralysed day the Ingleside folk found it was possible to\n\"carry on\" even in the face of ever-darkening bad news. Susan worked\nfiercely in her kitchen, the doctor went out on his round of visits,\nNan and Di returned to their Red Cross activities; Mrs. Blythe went to\nCharlottetown to attend a Red Cross Convention; Rilla after relieving\nher feelings by a stormy fit of tears in Rainbow Valley and an outburst\nin her diary, remembered that she had elected to be brave and heroic.\nAnd, she thought, it really was heroic to volunteer to drive about the\nGlen and Four Winds one day, collecting promised Red Cross supplies\nwith Abner Crawford's old grey horse. One of the Ingleside horses was\nlame and the doctor needed the other, so there was nothing for it but\nthe Crawford nag, a placid, unhasting, thick-skinned creature with an\namiable habit of stopping every few yards to kick a fly off one leg\nwith the foot of the other. Rilla felt that this, coupled with the fact\nthat the Germans were only fifty miles from Paris, was hardly to be\nendured. But she started off gallantly on an errand fraught with\namazing results.\n\nLate in the afternoon she found herself, with a buggy full of parcels,\nat the entrance to a grassy, deep-rutted lane leading to the harbour\nshore, wondering whether it was worth while to call down at the\nAnderson house. The Andersons were desperately poor and it was not\nlikely Mrs. Anderson had anything to give. On the other hand, her\nhusband, who was an Englishman by birth and who had been working in\nKingsport when the war broke out, had promptly sailed for England to\nenlist there, without, it may be said, coming home or sending much hard\ncash to represent him. So possibly Mrs. Anderson might feel hurt if she\nwere overlooked. Rilla decided to call. There were times afterwards\nwhen she wished she hadn't, but in the long run she was very thankful\nthat she did.\n\nThe Anderson house was a small and tumbledown affair, crouching in a\ngrove of battered spruces near the shore as if rather ashamed of itself\nand anxious to hide. Rilla tied her grey nag to the rickety fence and\nwent to the door. It was open; and the sight she saw bereft her\ntemporarily of the power of speech or motion.\n\nThrough the open door of the small bedroom opposite her, Rilla saw Mrs.\nAnderson lying on the untidy bed; and Mrs. Anderson was dead. There was\nno doubt of that; neither was there any doubt that the big, frowzy,\nred-headed, red-faced, over-fat woman sitting near the door-way,\nsmoking a pipe quite comfortably, was very much alive. She rocked idly\nback and forth amid her surroundings of squalid disorder, and paid no\nattention whatever to the piercing wails proceeding from a cradle in\nthe middle of the room.\n\nRilla knew the woman by sight and reputation. Her name was Mrs.\nConover; she lived down at the fishing village; she was a great-aunt of\nMrs. Anderson; and she drank as well as smoked.\n\nRilla's first impulse was to turn and flee. But that would never do.\nPerhaps this woman, repulsive as she was, needed help--though she\ncertainly did not look as if she were worrying over the lack of it.\n\n\"Come in,\" said Mrs. Conover, removing her pipe and staring at Rilla\nwith her little, rat-like eyes.\n\n\"Is--is Mrs. Anderson really dead?\" asked Rilla timidly, as she stepped\nover the sill.\n\n\"Dead as a door nail,\" responded Mrs. Conover cheerfully. \"Kicked the\nbucket half an hour ago. I've sent Jen Conover to 'phone for the\nundertaker and get some help up from the shore. You're the doctor's\nmiss, ain't ye? Have a cheer?\"\n\nRilla did not see any chair which was not cluttered with something. She\nremained standing.\n\n\"Wasn't it--very sudden?\"\n\n\"Well, she's been a-pining ever since that worthless Jim lit out for\nEngland--which I say it's a pity as he ever left. It's my belief she\nwas took for death when she heard the news. That young un there was\nborn a fortnight ago and since then she's just gone down and today she\nup and died, without a soul expecting it.\"\n\n\"Is there anything I can do to--to help?\" hesitated Rilla.\n\n\"Bless yez, no--unless ye've a knack with kids. I haven't. That young\nun there never lets up squalling, day or night. I've just got that I\ntake no notice of it.\"\n\nRilla tiptoed gingerly over to the cradle and more gingerly still\npulled down the dirty blanket. She had no intention of touching the\nbaby--she had no \"knack with kids\" either. She saw an ugly midget with\na red, distorted little face, rolled up in a piece of dingy old\nflannel. She had never seen an uglier baby. Yet a feeling of pity for\nthe desolate, orphaned mite which had \"come out of the everywhere\" into\nsuch a dubious \"here\", took sudden possession of her.\n\n\"What is going to become of the baby?\" she asked.\n\n\"Lord knows,\" said Mrs. Conover candidly. \"Min worried awful over that\nbefore she died. She kept on a-saying 'Oh, what will become of my pore\nbaby' till it really got on my nerves. I ain't a-going to trouble\nmyself with it, I can tell yez. I brung up a boy that my sister left\nand he skinned out as soon as he got to be some good and won't give me\na mite o' help in my old age, ungrateful whelp as he is. I told Min\nit'd have to be sent to an orphan asylum till we'd see if Jim ever came\nback to look after it. Would yez believe it, she didn't relish the\nidee. But that's the long and short of it.\"\n\n\"But who will look after it until it can be taken to the asylum?\"\npersisted Rilla. Somehow the baby's fate worried her.\n\n\"S'pose I'll have to,\" grunted Mrs. Conover. She put away her pipe and\ntook an unblushing swig from a black bottle she produced from a shelf\nnear her. \"It's my opinion the kid won't live long. It's sickly. Min\nnever had no gimp and I guess it hain't either. Likely it won't trouble\nany one long and good riddance, sez I.\"\n\nRilla drew the blanket down a little farther.\n\n\"Why, the baby isn't dressed!\" she exclaimed, in a shocked tone.\n\n\"Who was to dress him I'd like to know,\" demanded Mrs. Conover\ntruculently. \"I hadn't time--took me all the time there was looking\nafter Min. 'Sides, as I told yez, I don't know nithing about kids. Old\nMrs. Billy Crawford, she was here when it was born and she washed it\nand rolled it up in that flannel, and Jen she's tended it a bit since.\nThe critter is warm enough. This weather would melt a brass monkey.\"\n\nRilla was silent, looking down at the crying baby. She had never\nencountered any of the tragedies of life before and this one smote her\nto the core of her heart. The thought of the poor mother going down\ninto the valley of the shadow alone, fretting about her baby, with no\none near but this abominable old woman, hurt her terribly. If she had\nonly come a little sooner! Yet what could she have done--what could she\ndo now? She didn't know, but she must do something. She hated\nbabies--but she simply could not go away and leave that poor little\ncreature with Mrs. Conover--who was applying herself again to her black\nbottle and would probably be helplessly drunk before anybody came.\n\n\"I can't stay,\" thought Rilla. \"Mr. Crawford said I must be home by\nsupper-time because he wanted the pony this evening himself. Oh, what\ncan I do?\"\n\nShe made a sudden, desperate, impulsive resolution.\n\n\"I'll take the baby home with me,\" she said. \"Can I?\"\n\n\"Sure, if yez wants to,\" said Mrs. Conover amiably. \"I hain't any\nobjection. Take it and welcome.\"\n\n\"I--I can't carry it,\" said Rilla. \"I have to drive the horse and I'd\nbe afraid I'd drop it. Is there a--a basket anywhere that I could put\nit in?\"\n\n\"Not as I knows on. There ain't much here of anything, I kin tell yez.\nMin was pore and as shiftless as Jim. Ef ye opens that drawer over\nthere yez'll find a few baby clo'es. Best take them along.\"\n\nRilla got the clothes--the cheap, sleazy garments the poor mother had\nmade ready as best she could. But this did not solve the pressing\nproblem of the baby's transportation. Rilla looked helplessly round.\nOh, for mother--or Susan! Her eyes fell on an enormous blue soup tureen\nat the back of the dresser.\n\n\"May I have this to--to lay him in?\" she asked.\n\n\"Well, 'tain't mine but I guess yez kin take it. Don't smash it if yez\ncan help--Jim might make a fuss about it if he comes back alive--which\nhe sure will, seein' he ain't any good. He brung that old tureen out\nfrom England with him--said it'd always been in the family. Him and Min\nnever used it--never had enough soup to put in it--but Jim thought the\nworld of it. He was mighty perticuler about some things but didn't\nworry him none that there weren't much in the way o' eatables to put in\nthe dishes.\"\n\nFor the first time in her life Rilla Blythe touched a baby--lifted\nit--rolled it in a blanket, trembling with nervousness lest she drop it\nor--or--break it. Then she put it in the soup tureen.\n\n\"Is there any fear of it smothering?\" she asked anxiously.\n\n\"Not much odds if it do,\" said Mrs. Conover.\n\nHorrified Rilla loosened the blanket round the baby's face a little.\nThe mite had stopped crying and was blinking up at her. It had big dark\neyes in its ugly little face.\n\n\"Better not let the wind blow on it,\" admonished Mrs. Conover. \"Take\nits breath if it do.\"\n\nRilla wrapped the tattered little quilt around the soup tureen.\n\n\"Will you hand this to me after I get into the buggy, please?\"\n\n\"Sure I will,\" said Mrs. Conover, getting up with a grunt.\n\nAnd so it was that Rilla Blythe, who had driven to the Anderson house a\nself-confessed hater of babies, drove away from it carrying one in a\nsoup tureen on her lap!\n\nRilla thought she would never get to Ingleside. In the soup tureen\nthere was an uncanny silence. In one way she was thankful the baby did\nnot cry but she wished it would give an occasional squeak to prove that\nit was alive. Suppose it were smothered! Rilla dared not unwrap it to\nsee, lest the wind, which was now blowing a hurricane, should \"take its\nbreath,\" whatever dreadful thing that might be. She was a thankful girl\nwhen at last she reached harbour at Ingleside.\n\nRilla carried the soup tureen to the kitchen, and set it on the table\nunder Susan's eyes. Susan looked into the tureen and for once in her\nlife was so completely floored that she had not a word to say.\n\n\"What in the world is this?\" asked the doctor, coming in.\n\nRilla poured out her story. \"I just had to bring it, father,\" she\nconcluded. \"I couldn't leave it there.\"\n\n\"What are you going to do with it?\" asked the doctor coolly.\n\nRilla hadn't exactly expected this kind of question.\n\n\"We--we can keep it here for awhile--can't we--until something can be\narranged?\" she stammered confusedly.\n\nDr. Blythe walked up and down the kitchen for a moment or two while the\nbaby stared at the white walls of the soup tureen and Susan showed\nsigns of returning animation.\n\nPresently the doctor confronted Rilla.\n\n\"A young baby means a great deal of additional work and trouble in a\nhousehold, Rilla. Nan and Di are leaving for Redmond next week and\nneither your mother nor Susan is able to assume so much extra care\nunder present conditions. If you want to keep that baby here you must\nattend to it yourself.\"\n\n\"Me!\" Rilla was dismayed into being ungrammatical. \"Why--father--I--I\ncouldn't!\"\n\n\"Younger girls than you have had to look after babies. My advice and\nSusan's is at your disposal. If you cannot, then the baby must go back\nto Meg Conover. Its lease of life will be short if it does for it is\nevident that it is a delicate child and requires particular care. I\ndoubt if it would survive even if sent to an orphans' home. But I\ncannot have your mother and Susan over-taxed.\"\n\nThe doctor walked out of the kitchen, looking very stern and immovable.\nIn his heart he knew quite well that the small inhabitant of the big\nsoup tureen would remain at Ingleside, but he meant to see if Rilla\ncould not be induced to rise to the occasion.\n\nRilla sat looking blankly at the baby. It was absurd to think she could\ntake care of it. But--that poor little, frail, dead mother who had\nworried about it--that dreadful old Meg Conover.\n\n\"Susan, what must be done for a baby?\" she asked dolefully.\n\n\"You must keep it warm and dry and wash it every day, and be sure the\nwater is neither too hot nor too cold, and feed it every two hours. If\nit has colic, you put hot things on its stomach,\" said Susan, rather\nfeebly and flatly for her.\n\nThe baby began to cry again.\n\n\"It must be hungry--it has to be fed anyhow,\" said Rilla desperately.\n\"Tell me what to get for it, Susan, and I'll get it.\"\n\nUnder Susan's directions a ration of milk and water was prepared, and a\nbottle obtained from the doctor's office. Then Rilla lifted the baby\nout of the soup tureen and fed it. She brought down the old basket of\nher own infancy from the attic and laid the now sleeping baby in it.\nShe put the soup tureen away in the pantry. Then she sat down to think\nthings over.\n\nThe result of her thinking things over was that she went to Susan when\nthe baby woke.\n\n\"I'm going to see what I can do, Susan. I can't let that poor little\nthing go back to Mrs. Conover. Tell me how to wash and dress it.\"\n\nUnder Susan's supervision Rilla bathed the baby. Susan dared not help,\nother than by suggestion, for the doctor was in the living-room and\nmight pop in at any moment. Susan had learned by experience that when\nDr. Blythe put his foot down and said a thing must be, that thing was.\nRilla set her teeth and went ahead. In the name of goodness, how many\nwrinkles and kinks did a baby have? Why, there wasn't enough of it to\ntake hold of. Oh, suppose she let it slip into the water--it was so\nwobbly! If it would only stop howling like that! How could such a tiny\nmorsel make such an enormous noise. Its shrieks could be heard over\nIngleside from cellar to attic.\n\n\"Am I really hurting it much, Susan, do you suppose?\" she asked\npiteously.\n\n\"No, dearie. Most new babies hate like poison to be washed. You are\nreal knacky for a beginner. Keep your hand under its back, whatever you\ndo, and keep cool.\"\n\nKeep cool! Rilla was oozing perspiration at every pore. When the baby\nwas dried and dressed and temporarily quieted with another bottle she\nwas as limp as a rag.\n\n\"What must I do with it tonight, Susan?\"\n\nA baby by day was dreadful enough; a baby by night was unthinkable.\n\n\"Set the basket on a chair by your bed and keep it covered. You will\nhave to feed it once or twice in the night, so you would better take\nthe oil heater upstairs. If you cannot manage it call me and I will go,\ndoctor or no doctor.\"\n\n\"But, Susan, if it cries?\"\n\nThe baby, however, did not cry. It was surprisingly good--perhaps\nbecause its poor little stomach was filled with proper food. It slept\nmost of the night but Rilla did not. She was afraid to go to sleep for\nfear something would happen to the baby. She prepared its three o'clock\nration with a grim determination that she would not call Susan. Oh, was\nshe dreaming? Was it really she, Rilla Blythe, who had got into this\nabsurd predicament? She did not care if the Germans were near\nParis--she did not care if they were in Paris--if only the baby\nwouldn't cry or choke or smother or have convulsions. Babies did have\nconvulsions, didn't they? Oh, why had she forgotten to ask Susan what\nshe must do if the baby had convulsions? She reflected rather bitterly\nthat father was very considerate of mother's and Susan's health, but\nwhat about hers? Did he think she could continue to exist if she never\ngot any sleep? But she was not going to back down now--not she. She\nwould look after this detestable little animal if it killed her. She\nwould get a book on baby hygiene and be beholden to nobody. She would\nnever go to father for advice--she wouldn't bother mother--and she\nwould only condescend to Susan in dire extremity. They would all see!\n\nThus it came about that Mrs. Blythe, when she returned home two nights\nlater and asked Susan where Rilla was, was electrified by Susan's\ncomposed reply.\n\n\"She's upstairs, Mrs. Dr. dear, putting her baby to bed.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nRILLA DECIDES\n\nFamilies and individuals alike soon become used to new conditions and\naccept them unquestioningly. By the time a week had elapsed it seemed\nas it the Anderson baby had always been at Ingleside. After the first\nthree distracted nights Rilla began to sleep again, waking\nautomatically to attend to her charge on schedule time. She bathed and\nfed and dressed it as skilfully as if she had been doing it all her\nlife. She liked neither her job nor the baby any the better; she still\nhandled it as gingerly as if it were some kind of a small lizard, and a\nbreakable lizard at that; but she did her work thoroughly and there was\nnot a cleaner, better-cared-for infant in Glen St. Mary. She even took\nto weighing the creature every day and jotting the result down in her\ndiary; but sometimes she asked herself pathetically why unkind destiny\nhad ever led her down the Anderson lane on that fatal day. Shirley,\nNan, and Di did not tease her as much as she had expected. They all\nseemed rather stunned by the mere fact of Rilla adopting a war-baby;\nperhaps, too, the doctor had issued instructions. Walter, of course,\nnever had teased her over anything; one day he told her she was a brick.\n\n\"It took more courage for you to tackle that five pounds of new infant,\nRilla-my-Rilla, than it would be for Jem to face a mile of Germans. I\nwish I had half your pluck,\" he said ruefully.\n\nRilla was very proud of Walter's approval; nevertheless, she wrote\ngloomily in her diary that night:--\n\n\"I wish I could like the baby a little bit. It would make things\neasier. But I don't. I've heard people say that when you took care of a\nbaby you got fond of it--but you don't--I don't, anyway. And it's a\nnuisance--it interferes with everything. It just ties me down--and now\nof all times when I'm trying to get the Junior Reds started. And I\ncouldn't go to Alice Clow's party last night and I was just dying to.\nOf course father isn't really unreasonable and I can always get an hour\nor two off in the evening when it's necessary; but I knew he wouldn't\nstand for my being out half the night and leaving Susan or mother to\nsee to the baby. I suppose it was just as well, because the thing did\ntake colic--or something--about one o'clock. It didn't kick or stiffen\nout, so I knew that, according to Morgan, it wasn't crying for temper;\nand it wasn't hungry and no pins were sticking in it. It screamed till\nit was black in the face; I got up and heated water and put the\nhot-water bottle on its stomach, and it howled worse than ever and drew\nup its poor wee thin legs. I was afraid I had burnt it but I don't\nbelieve I did. Then I walked the floor with it although 'Morgan on\nInfants' says that should never be done. I walked miles, and oh, I was\nso tired and discouraged and mad--yes, I was. I could have shaken the\ncreature if it had been big enough to shake, but it wasn't. Father was\nout on a case, and mother had had a headache and Susan is squiffy\nbecause when she and Morgan differ I insist upon going by what Morgan\nsays, so I was determined I wouldn't call her unless I had to.\n\n\"Finally, Miss Oliver came in. She has rooms with Nan now, not me, all\nbecause of the baby, and I am broken-hearted about it. I miss our long\ntalks after we went to bed, so much. It was the only time I ever had\nher to myself. I hated to think the baby's yells had wakened her up,\nfor she has so much to bear now. Mr. Grant is at Valcartier, too, and\nMiss Oliver feels it dreadfully, though she is splendid about it. She\nthinks he will never come back and her eyes just break my heart--they\nare so tragic. She said it wasn't the baby that woke her--she hadn't\nbeen able to sleep because the Germans are so near Paris; she took the\nlittle wretch and laid it flat on its stomach across her knee and\nthumped its back gently a few times, and it stopped shrieking and went\nright off to sleep and slept like a lamb the rest of the night. I\ndidn't--I was too worn out.\n\n\"I'm having a perfectly dreadful time getting the Junior Reds started.\nI succeeded in getting Betty Mead as president, and I am secretary, but\nthey put Jen Vickers in as treasurer and I despise her. She is the sort\nof girl who calls any clever, handsome, or distinguished people she\nknows slightly by their first names--behind their backs. And she is sly\nand two-faced. Una doesn't mind, of course. She is willing to do\nanything that comes to hand and never minds whether she has an office\nor not. She is just a perfect angel, while I am only angelic in spots\nand demonic in other spots. I wish Walter would take a fancy to her,\nbut he never seems to think about her in that way, although I heard him\nsay once she was like a tea rose. She is too. And she gets imposed\nupon, just because she is so sweet and willing; but I don't allow\npeople to impose on Rilla Blythe and 'that you may tie to,' as Susan\nsays.\n\n\"Just as I expected, Olive was determined we should have lunch served\nat our meetings. We had a battle royal over it. The majority was\nagainst eats and now the minority is sulking. Irene Howard was on the\neats side and she has been very cool to me ever since and it makes me\nfeel miserable. I wonder if mother and Mrs. Elliott have problems in\nthe Senior Society too. I suppose they have, but they just go on calmly\nin spite of everything. I go on--but not calmly--I rage and cry--but I\ndo it all in private and blow off steam in this diary; and when it's\nover I vow I'll show them. I never sulk. I detest people who sulk.\nAnyhow, we've got the society started and we're to meet once a week,\nand we're all going to learn to knit.\n\n\"Shirley and I went down to the station again to try to induce Dog\nMonday to come home but we failed. All the family have tried and\nfailed. Three days after Jem had gone Walter went down and brought\nMonday home by main force in the buggy and shut him up for three days.\nThen Monday went on a hunger strike and howled like a Banshee night and\nday. We had to let him out or he would have starved to death.\n\n\"So we have decided to let him alone and father has arranged with the\nbutcher near the station to feed him with bones and scraps. Besides,\none of us goes down nearly every day to take him something. He just\nlies curled up in the shipping-shed, and every time a train comes in he\nwill rush over to the platform, wagging his tail expectantly, and tear\naround to every one who comes off the train. And then, when the train\ngoes and he realizes that Jem has not come, he creeps dejectedly back\nto his shed, with his disappointed eyes, and lies down patiently to\nwait for the next train. Mr. Gray, the station master, says there are\ntimes when he can hardly help crying from sheer sympathy. One day some\nboys threw stones at Monday and old Johnny Mead, who never was known to\ntake notice of anything before, snatched up a meat axe in the butcher's\nshop and chased them through the village. Nobody has molested Monday\nsince.\n\n\"Kenneth Ford has gone back to Toronto. He came up two evenings ago to\nsay good-bye. I wasn't home--some clothes had to be made for the baby\nand Mrs. Meredith offered to help me, so I was over at the manse, and I\ndidn't see Kenneth. Not that it matters; he told Nan to say good-bye to\nSpider for him and tell me not to forget him wholly in my absorbing\nmaternal duties. If he could leave such a frivolous, insulting message\nas that for me it shows plainly that our beautiful hour on the\nsandshore meant nothing to him and I am not going to think about him or\nit again.\n\n\"Fred Arnold was at the manse and walked home with me. He is the new\nMethodist minister's son and very nice and clever, and would be quite\nhandsome if it were not for his nose. It is a really dreadful nose.\nWhen he talks of commonplace things it does not matter so much, but\nwhen he talks of poetry and ideals the contrast between his nose and\nhis conversation is too much for me and I want to shriek with laughter.\nIt is really not fair, because everything he said was perfectly\ncharming and if somebody like Kenneth had said it I would have been\nenraptured. When I listened to him with my eyes cast down I was quite\nfascinated; but as soon as I looked up and saw his nose the spell was\nbroken. He wants to enlist, too, but can't because he is only\nseventeen. Mrs. Elliott met us as we were walking through the village\nand could not have looked more horrified if she caught me walking with\nthe Kaiser himself. Mrs. Elliott detests the Methodists and all their\nworks. Father says it is an obsession with her.\"\n\nAbout 1st September there was an exodus from Ingleside and the manse.\nFaith, Nan, Di and Walter left for Redmond; Carl betook himself to his\nHarbour Head school and Shirley was off to Queen's. Rilla was left\nalone at Ingleside and would have been very lonely if she had had time\nto be. She missed Walter keenly; since their talk in Rainbow Valley\nthey had grown very near together and Rilla discussed problems with\nWalter which she never mentioned to others. But she was so busy with\nthe Junior Reds and her baby that there was rarely a spare minute for\nloneliness; sometimes, after she went to bed, she cried a little in her\npillow over Walter's absence and Jem at Valcartier and Kenneth's\nunromantic farewell message, but she was generally asleep before the\ntears got fairly started.\n\n\"Shall I make arrangements to have the baby sent to Hopetown?\" the\ndoctor asked one day two weeks after the baby's arrival at Ingleside.\n\nFor a moment Rilla was tempted to say \"Yes.\" The baby could be sent to\nHopetown--it would be decently looked after--she could have her free\ndays and untrammelled nights back again. But--but--that poor young\nmother who hadn't wanted it to go to the asylum! Rilla couldn't get\nthat out of her thoughts. And that very morning she discovered that the\nbaby had gained eight ounces since its coming to Ingleside. Rilla had\nfelt such a thrill of pride over this.\n\n\"You--you said it mightn't live if it went to Hopetown,\" she said.\n\n\"It mightn't. Somehow, institutional care, no matter how good it may\nbe, doesn't always succeed with delicate babies. But you know what it\nmeans if you want it kept here, Rilla.\"\n\n\"I've taken care of it for a fortnight--and it has gained half a\npound,\" cried Rilla. \"I think we'd better wait until we hear from its\nfather anyhow. He mightn't want to have it sent to an orphan asylum,\nwhen he is fighting the battles of his country.\"\n\nThe doctor and Mrs. Blythe exchanged amused, satisfied smiles behind\nRilla's back; and nothing more was said about Hopetown.\n\nThen the smile faded from the doctor's face; the Germans were twenty\nmiles from Paris. Horrible tales were beginning to appear in the papers\nof deeds done in martyred Belgium. Life was very tense at Ingleside for\nthe older people.\n\n\"We eat up the war news,\" Gertrude Oliver told Mrs. Meredith, trying to\nlaugh and failing. \"We study the maps and nip the whole Hun army in a\nfew well-directed strategic moves. But Papa Joffre hasn't the benefit\nof our advice--and so Paris--must--fall.\"\n\n\"Will they reach it--will not some mighty hand yet intervene?\" murmured\nJohn Meredith.\n\n\"I teach school like one in a dream,\" continued Gertrude; \"then I come\nhome and shut myself in my room and walk the floor. I am wearing a path\nright across Nan's carpet. We are so horribly near this war.\"\n\n\"Them German men are at Senlis. Nothing nor nobody can save Paris now,\"\nwailed Cousin Sophia. Cousin Sophia had taken to reading the newspapers\nand had learned more about the geography of northern France, if not\nabout the pronunciation of French names, in her seventy-first year than\nshe had ever known in her schooldays.\n\n\"I have not such a poor opinion of the Almighty, or of Kitchener,\" said\nSusan stubbornly. \"I see there is a Bernstoff man in the States who\nsays that the war is over and Germany has won--and they tell me\nWhiskers-on-the-moon says the same thing and is quite pleased about it,\nbut I could tell them both that it is chancy work counting chickens\neven the day before they are hatched, and bears have been known to live\nlong after their skins were sold.\"\n\n\"Why ain't the British navy doing more?\" persisted Cousin Sophia.\n\n\"Even the British navy cannot sail on dry land, Sophia Crawford. I have\nnot given up hope, and I shall not, Tomascow and Mobbage and all such\nbarbarous names to the contrary notwithstanding. Mrs. Dr. dear, can you\ntell me if R-h-e-i-m-s is Rimes or Reems or Rames or Rems?\"\n\n\"I believe it's really more like 'Rhangs,' Susan.\"\n\n\"Oh, those French names,\" groaned Susan.\n\n\"They tell me the Germans has about ruined the church there,\" sighed\nCousin Sophia. \"I always thought the Germans was Christians.\"\n\n\"A church is bad enough but their doings in Belgium are far worse,\"\nsaid Susan grimly. \"When I heard the doctor reading about them\nbayonetting the babies, Mrs. Dr. dear, I just thought, 'Oh, what if it\nwere our little Jem!' I was stirring the soup when that thought came to\nme and I just felt that if I could have lifted that saucepan full of\nthat boiling soup and thrown it at the Kaiser I would not have lived in\nvain.\"\n\n\"Tomorrow--tomorrow--will bring the news that the Germans are in\nParis,\" said Gertrude Oliver, through her tense lips. She had one of\nthose souls that are always tied to the stake, burning in the suffering\nof the world around them. Apart from her own personal interest in the\nwar, she was racked by the thought of Paris falling into the ruthless\nhands of the hordes who had burned Louvain and ruined the wonder of\nRheims.\n\nBut on the morrow and the next morrow came the news of the miracle of\nthe Marne. Rilla rushed madly home from the office waving the\nEnterprise with its big red headlines. Susan ran out with trembling\nhands to hoist the flag. The doctor stalked about muttering \"Thank\nGod.\" Mrs. Blythe cried and laughed and cried again.\n\n\"God just put out His hand and touched them--'thus far--no farther',\"\nsaid Mr. Meredith that evening.\n\nRilla was singing upstairs as she put the baby to bed. Paris was\nsaved--the war was over--Germany had lost--there would soon be an end\nnow--Jem and Jerry would be back. The black clouds had rolled by.\n\n\"Don't you dare have colic this joyful night,\" she told the baby. \"If\nyou do I'll clap you back into your soup tureen and ship you off to\nHopetown--by freight--on the early train. You have got beautiful\neyes--and you're not quite as red and wrinkled as you were--but you\nhaven't a speck of hair--and your hands are like little claws--and I\ndon't like you a bit better than I ever did. But I hope your poor\nlittle white mother knows that you're tucked in a soft basket with a\nbottle of milk as rich as Morgan allows instead of perishing by inches\nwith old Meg Conover. And I hope she doesn't know that I nearly drowned\nyou that first morning when Susan wasn't there and I let you slip right\nout of my hands into the water. Why will you be so slippery? No, I\ndon't like you and I never will but for all that I'm going to make a\ndecent, upstanding infant of you. You are going to get as fat as a\nself-respecting child should be, for one thing. I am not going to have\npeople saying 'what a puny little thing that baby of Rilla Blythe's is'\nas old Mrs. Drew said at the senior Red Cross yesterday. If I can't\nlove you I mean to be proud of you at least.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nDOC HAS A MISADVENTURE\n\n\"The war will not be over before next spring now,\" said Dr. Blythe,\nwhen it became apparent that the long battle of the Aisne had resulted\nin a stalemate.\n\nRilla was murmuring \"knit four, purl one\" under her breath, and rocking\nthe baby's cradle with one foot. Morgan disapproved of cradles for\nbabies but Susan did not, and it was worth while to make some slight\nsacrifice of principle to keep Susan in good humour. She laid down her\nknitting for a moment and said, \"Oh, how can we bear it so long?\"--then\npicked up her sock and went on. The Rilla of two months before would\nhave rushed off to Rainbow Valley and cried.\n\nMiss Oliver sighed and Mrs. Blythe clasped her hands for a moment. Then\nSusan said briskly, \"Well, we must just gird up our loins and pitch in.\nBusiness as usual is England's motto, they tell me, Mrs. Dr. dear, and\nI have taken it for mine, not thinking I could easily find a better. I\nshall make the same kind of pudding today I always make on Saturday. It\nis a good deal of trouble to make, and that is well, for it will employ\nmy thoughts. I will remember that Kitchener is at the helm and Joffer\nis doing very well for a Frenchman. I shall get that box of cake off to\nlittle Jem and finish that pair of socks today likewise. A sock a day\nis my allowance. Old Mrs. Albert Mead of Harbour Head manages a pair\nand a half a day but she has nothing to do but knit. You know, Mrs. Dr.\ndear, she has been bed-rid for years and she has been worrying terrible\nbecause she was no good to anybody and a dreadful expense, and yet\ncould not die and be out of the way. And now they tell me she is quite\nchirked up and resigned to living because there is something she can\ndo, and she knits for the soldiers from daylight to dark. Even Cousin\nSophia has taken to knitting, Mrs. Dr. dear, and it is a good thing,\nfor she cannot think of quite so many doleful speeches to make when her\nhands are busy with her needles instead of being folded on her stomach.\nShe thinks we will all be Germans this time next year but I tell her it\nwill take more than a year to make a German out of me. Do you know that\nRick MacAllister has enlisted, Mrs. Dr. dear? And they say Joe Milgrave\nwould too, only he is afraid that if he does that Whiskers-on-the-moon\nwill not let him have Miranda. Whiskers says that he will believe the\nstories of German atrocities when he sees them, and that it is a good\nthing that Rangs Cathedral has been destroyed because it was a Roman\nCatholic church. Now, I am not a Roman Catholic, Mrs. Dr. dear, being\nborn and bred a good Presbyterian and meaning to live and die one, but\nI maintain that the Catholics have as good a right to their churches as\nwe have to ours and that the Huns had no kind of business to destroy\nthem. Just think, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" concluded Susan pathetically, \"how we\nwould feel if a German shell knocked down the spire of our church here\nin the glen, and I'm sure it is every bit as bad to think of Rangs\ncathedral being hammered to pieces.\"\n\nAnd, meanwhile, everywhere, the lads of the world rich and poor, low\nand high, white and brown, were following the Piper's call.\n\n\"Even Billy Andrews' boy is going--and Jane's only son--and Diana's\nlittle Jack,\" said Mrs. Blythe. \"Priscilla's son has gone from Japan\nand Stella's from Vancouver--and both the Rev. Jo's boys. Philippa\nwrites that her boys 'went right away, not being afflicted with her\nindecision.'\"\n\n\"Jem says that he thinks they will be leaving very soon now, and that\nhe will not be able to get leave to come so far before they go, as they\nwill have to start at a few hours' notice,\" said the doctor, passing\nthe letter to his wife.\n\n\"That is not fair,\" said Susan indignantly. \"Has Sir Sam Hughes no\nregard for our feelings? The idea of whisking that blessed boy away to\nEurope without letting us even have a last glimpse of him! If I were\nyou, doctor dear, I would write to the papers about it.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it is as well,\" said the disappointed mother. \"I don't believe\nI could bear another parting from him--now that I know the war will not\nbe over as soon as we hoped when he left first. Oh, if only--but no, I\nwon't say it! Like Susan and Rilla,\" concluded Mrs. Blythe, achieving a\nlaugh, \"I am determined to be a heroine.\"\n\n\"You're all good stuff,\" said the doctor, \"I'm proud of my women folk.\nEven Rilla here, my 'lily of the field,' is running a Red Cross Society\nfull blast and saving a little life for Canada. That's a good piece of\nwork. Rilla, daughter of Anne, what are you going to call your\nwar-baby?\"\n\n\"I'm waiting to hear from Jim Anderson,\" said Rilla. \"He may want to\nname his own child.\"\n\nBut as the autumn weeks went by no word came from Jim Anderson, who had\nnever been heard from since he sailed from Halifax, and to whom the\nfate of wife and child seemed a matter of indifference. Eventually\nRilla decided to call the baby James, and Susan opined that Kitchener\nshould be added thereto. So James Kitchener Anderson became the\npossessor of a name somewhat more imposing than himself. The Ingleside\nfamily promptly shortened it to Jims, but Susan obstinately called him\n\"Little Kitchener\" and nothing else.\n\n\"Jims is no name for a Christian child, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" she said\ndisapprovingly. \"Cousin Sophia says it is too flippant, and for once I\nconsider she utters sense, though I would not please her by openly\nagreeing with her. As for the child, he is beginning to look something\nlike a baby, and I must admit that Rilla is wonderful with him, though\nI would not pamper pride by saying so to her face. Mrs. Dr. dear, I\nshall never, no never, forget the first sight I had of that infant,\nlying in that big soup tureen, rolled up in dirty flannel. It is not\noften that Susan Baker is flabbergasted, but flabbergasted I was then,\nand that you may tie to. For one awful moment I thought my mind had\ngiven way and that I was seeing visions. Then thinks I, 'No, I never\nheard of anyone having a vision of a soup tureen, so it must be real at\nleast,' and I plucked up confidence. When I heard the doctor tell Rilla\nthat she must take care of the baby I thought he was joking, for I did\nnot believe for a minute she would or could do it. But you see what has\nhappened and it is making a woman of her. When we have to do a thing,\nMrs. Dr. dear, we can do it.\"\n\nSusan added another proof to this concluding dictum of hers one day in\nOctober. The doctor and his wife were away. Rilla was presiding over\nJims' afternoon siesta upstairs, purling four and knitting one with\nceaseless vim. Susan was seated on the back veranda, shelling beans,\nand Cousin Sophia was helping her. Peace and tranquility brooded over\nthe Glen; the sky was fleeced over with silvery, shining clouds.\nRainbow Valley lay in a soft, autumnal haze of fairy purple. The maple\ngrove was a burning bush of colour and the hedge of sweet-briar around\nthe kitchen yard was a thing of wonder in its subtle tintings. It did\nnot seem that strife could be in the world, and Susan's faithful heart\nwas lulled into a brief forgetfulness, although she had lain awake most\nof the preceding night thinking of little Jem far out on the Atlantic,\nwhere the great fleet was carrying Canada's first army across the\nocean. Even Cousin Sophia looked less melancholy than usual and\nadmitted that there was not much fault to be found in the day, although\nthere was no doubt it was a weather-breeder and there would be an awful\nstorm on its heels.\n\n\"Things is too calm to last,\" she said.\n\nAs if in confirmation of her assertion, a most unearthly din suddenly\narose behind them. It was quite impossible to describe the confused\nmedley of bangs and rattles and muffled shrieks and yowls that\nproceeded from the kitchen, accompanied by occasional crashes. Susan\nand Cousin Sophia stared at each other in dismay.\n\n\"What upon airth has bruk loose in there?\" gasped Cousin Sophia.\n\n\"It must be that Hyde-cat gone clean mad at last,\" muttered Susan. \"I\nhave always expected it.\"\n\nRilla came flying out of the side door of the living-room.\n\n\"What has happened?\" she demanded.\n\n\"It is beyond me to say, but that possessed beast of yours is evidently\nat the bottom of it,\" said Susan. \"Do not go near him, at least. I will\nopen the door and peep in. There goes some more of the crockery. I have\nalways said that the devil was in him and that I will tie to.\"\n\n\"It is my opinion that the cat has hydrophobia,\" said Cousin Sophia\nsolemnly. \"I once heard of a cat that went mad and bit three\npeople--and they all died a most terrible death, and turned black as\nink.\"\n\nUndismayed by this, Susan opened the door and looked in. The floor was\nlittered with fragments of broken dishes, for it seemed that the fatal\ntragedy had taken place on the long dresser where Susan's array of\ncooking bowls had been marshalled in shining state. Around the kitchen\ntore a frantic cat, with his head wedged tightly in an old salmon can.\nBlindly he careered about with shrieks and profanity commingled, now\nbanging the can madly against anything he encountered, now trying\nvainly to wrench it off with his paws.\n\nThe sight was so funny that Rilla doubled up with laughter. Susan\nlooked at her reproachfully.\n\n\"I see nothing to laugh at. That beast has broken your ma's big blue\nmixing-bowl that she brought from Green Gables when she was married.\nThat is no small calamity, in my opinion. But the thing to consider now\nis how to get that can off Hyde's head.\"\n\n\"Don't you dast go touching it,\" exclaimed Cousin Sophia, galvanized\ninto animation. \"It might be your death. Shut the kitchen up and send\nfor Albert.\"\n\n\"I am not in the habit of sending for Albert during family\ndifficulties,\" said Susan loftily. \"That beast is in torment, and\nwhatever my opinion of him may be, I cannot endure to see him suffering\npain. You keep away, Rilla, for little Kitchener's sake, and I will see\nwhat I can do.\"\n\nSusan stalked undauntedly into the kitchen, seized an old storm coat of\nthe doctor's and after a wild pursuit and several fruitless dashes and\npounces, managed to throw it over the cat and can. Then she proceeded\nto saw the can loose with a can-opener, while Rilla held the squirming\nanimal, rolled in the coat. Anything like Doc's shrieks while the\nprocess was going on was never heard at Ingleside. Susan was in mortal\ndread that the Albert Crawfords would hear it and conclude she was\ntorturing the creature to death. Doc was a wrathful and indignant cat\nwhen he was freed. Evidently he thought the whole thing was a put-up\njob to bring him low. He gave Susan a baleful glance by way of\ngratitude and rushed out of the kitchen to take sanctuary in the jungle\nof the sweet-briar hedge, where he sulked for the rest of the day.\nSusan swept up her broken dishes grimly.\n\n\"The Huns themselves couldn't have worked more havoc here,\" she said\nbitterly. \"But when people will keep a Satanic animal like that, in\nspite of all warnings, they cannot complain when their wedding bowls\nget broken. Things have come to a pretty pass when an honest woman\ncannot leave her kitchen for a few minutes without a fiend of a cat\nrampaging through it with his head in a salmon can.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nTHE TROUBLES OF RILLA\n\nOctober passed out and the dreary days of November and December dragged\nby. The world shook with the thunder of contending armies; Antwerp\nfell--Turkey declared war--gallant little Serbia gathered herself\ntogether and struck a deadly blow at her oppressor; and in quiet,\nhill-girdled Glen St. Mary, thousands of miles away, hearts beat with\nhope and fear over the varying dispatches from day to day.\n\n\"A few months ago,\" said Miss Oliver, \"we thought and talked in terms\nof Glen St. Mary. Now, we think and talk in terms of military tactics\nand diplomatic intrigue.\"\n\nThere was just one great event every day--the coming of the mail. Even\nSusan admitted that from the time the mail-courier's buggy rumbled over\nthe little bridge between the station and the village until the papers\nwere brought home and read, she could not work properly.\n\n\"I must take up my knitting then and knit hard till the papers come,\nMrs. Dr. dear. Knitting is something you can do, even when your heart\nis going like a trip-hammer and the pit of your stomach feels all gone\nand your thoughts are catawampus. Then when I see the headlines, be\nthey good or be they bad, I calm down and am able to go about my\nbusiness again. It is an unfortunate thing that the mail comes in just\nwhen our dinner rush is on, and I think the Government could arrange\nthings better. But the drive on Calais has failed, as I felt perfectly\nsure it would, and the Kaiser will not eat his Christmas dinner in\nLondon this year. Do you know, Mrs. Dr. dear,\"--Susan's voice lowered\nas a token that she was going to impart a very shocking piece of\ninformation,--\"I have been told on good authority--or else you may be\nsure I would not be repeating it when it concerns a minster--that the\nRev. Mr. Arnold goes to Charlottetown every week and takes a Turkish\nbath for his rheumatism. The idea of him doing that when we are at war\nwith Turkey? One of his own deacons has always insisted that Mr.\nArnold's theology was not sound and I am beginning to believe that\nthere is some reason to fear it. Well, I must bestir myself this\nafternoon and get little Jem's Christmas cake packed up for him. He\nwill enjoy it, if the blessed boy is not drowned in mud before that\ntime.\"\n\nJem was in camp on Salisbury Plain and was writing gay, cheery letters\nhome in spite of the mud. Walter was at Redmond and his letters to\nRilla were anything but cheerful. She never opened one without a dread\ntugging at her heart that it would tell her he had enlisted. His\nunhappiness made her unhappy. She wanted to put her arm round him and\ncomfort him, as she had done that day in Rainbow Valley. She hated\neverybody who was responsible for Walter's unhappiness.\n\n\"He will go yet,\" she murmured miserably to herself one afternoon, as\nshe sat alone in Rainbow Valley, reading a letter from him, \"he will go\nyet--and if he does I just can't bear it.\"\n\nWalter wrote that some one had sent him an envelope containing a white\nfeather.\n\n\"I deserved it, Rilla. I felt that I ought to put it on and wear\nit--proclaiming myself to all Redmond the coward I know I am. The boys\nof my year are going--going. Every day two or three of them join up.\nSome days I almost make up my mind to do it--and then I see myself\nthrusting a bayonet through another man--some woman's husband or\nsweetheart or son--perhaps the father of little children--I see myself\nlying alone torn and mangled, burning with thirst on a cold, wet field,\nsurrounded by dead and dying men--and I know I never can. I can't face\neven the thought of it. How could I face the reality? There are times\nwhen I wish I had never been born. Life has always seemed such a\nbeautiful thing to me--and now it is a hideous thing. Rilla-my-Rilla,\nif it weren't for your letters--your dear, bright, merry, funny,\ncomical, believing letters--I think I'd give up. And Una's! Una is\nreally a little brick, isn't she? There's a wonderful fineness and\nfirmness under all that shy, wistful girlishness of her. She hasn't\nyour knack of writing laugh-provoking epistles, but there's something\nin her letters--I don't know what--that makes me feel at least while\nI'm reading them, that I could even go to the front. Not that she ever\nsays a word about my going--or hints that I ought to go--she isn't that\nkind. It's just the spirit of them--the personality that is in them.\nWell, I can't go. You have a brother and Una has a friend who is a\ncoward.\"\n\n\"Oh, I wish Walter wouldn't write such things,\" sighed Rilla. \"It hurts\nme. He isn't a coward--he isn't--he isn't!\"\n\nShe looked wistfully about her--at the little woodland valley and the\ngrey, lonely fallows beyond. How everything reminded her of Walter! The\nred leaves still clung to the wild sweet-briars that overhung a curve\nof the brook; their stems were gemmed with the pearls of the gentle\nrain that had fallen a little while before. Walter had once written a\npoem describing them. The wind was sighing and rustling among the\nfrosted brown bracken ferns, then lessening sorrowfully away down the\nbrook. Walter had said once that he loved the melancholy of the autumn\nwind on a November day. The old Tree Lovers still clasped each other in\na faithful embrace, and the White Lady, now a great white-branched\ntree, stood out beautifully fine, against the grey velvet sky. Walter\nhad named them long ago; and last November, when he had walked with her\nand Miss Oliver in the Valley, he had said, looking at the leafless\nLady, with a young silver moon hanging over her, \"A white birch is a\nbeautiful Pagan maiden who has never lost the Eden secret of being\nnaked and unashamed.\" Miss Oliver had said, \"Put that into a poem,\nWalter,\" and he had done so, and read it to them the next day--just a\nshort thing with goblin imagination in every line of it. Oh, how happy\nthey had been then!\n\nWell--Rilla scrambled to her feet--time was up. Jims would soon be\nawake--his lunch had to be prepared--his little slips had to be\nironed--there was a committee meeting of the Junior Reds that\nnight--there was her new knitting bag to finish--it would be the\nhandsomest bag in the Junior Society--handsomer even than Irene\nHoward's--she must get home and get to work. She was busy these days\nfrom morning till night. That little monkey of a Jims took so much\ntime. But he was growing--he was certainly growing. And there were\ntimes when Rilla felt sure that it was not merely a pious hope but an\nabsolute fact that he was getting decidedly better looking. Sometimes\nshe felt quite proud of him; and sometimes she yearned to spank him.\nBut she never kissed him or wanted to kiss him.\n\n\"The Germans captured Lodz today,\" said Miss Oliver, one December\nevening, when she, Mrs. Blythe, and Susan were busy sewing or knitting\nin the cosy living-room. \"This war is at least extending my knowledge\nof geography. Schoolma'am though I am, three months ago I didn't know\nthere was such a place in the world such as Lodz. Had I heard it\nmentioned I would have known nothing about it and cared as little. I\nknow all about it now--its size, its standing, its military\nsignificance. Yesterday the news that the Germans have captured it in\ntheir second rush to Warsaw made my heart sink into my boots. I woke up\nin the night and worried over it. I don't wonder babies always cry when\nthey wake up in the night. Everything presses on my soul then and no\ncloud has a silver lining.\"\n\n\"When I wake up in the night and cannot go to sleep again,\" remarked\nSusan, who was knitting and reading at the same time, \"I pass the\nmoments by torturing the Kaiser to death. Last night I fried him in\nboiling oil and a great comfort it was to me, remembering those Belgian\nbabies.\"\n\n\"If the Kaiser were here and had a pain in his shoulder you'd be the\nfirst to run for the liniment bottle to rub him down,\" laughed Miss\nOliver.\n\n\"Would I?\" cried outraged Susan. \"Would I, Miss Oliver? I would rub him\ndown with coal oil, Miss Oliver--and leave it to blister. That is what\nI would do and that you may tie to. A pain in his shoulder, indeed! He\nwill have pains all over him before he is through with what he has\nstarted.\"\n\n\"We are told to love our enemies, Susan,\" said the doctor solemnly.\n\n\"Yes, our enemies, but not King George's enemies, doctor dear,\"\nretorted Susan crushingly. She was so well pleased with herself over\nthis flattening out of the doctor completely that she even smiled as\nshe polished her glasses. Susan had never given in to glasses before,\nbut she had done so at last in order to be able to read the war\nnews--and not a dispatch got by her. \"Can you tell me, Miss Oliver, how\nto pronounce M-l-a-w-a and B-z-u-r-a and P-r-z-e-m-y-s-l?\"\n\n\"That last is a conundrum which nobody seems to have solved yet, Susan.\nAnd I can make only a guess at the others.\"\n\n\"These foreign names are far from being decent, in my opinion,\" said\ndisgusted Susan.\n\n\"I dare say the Austrians and Russians would think Saskatchewan and\nMusquodoboit about as bad, Susan,\" said Miss Oliver. \"The Serbians have\ndone wonderfully of late. They have captured Belgrade.\"\n\n\"And sent the Austrian creatures packing across the Danube with a flea\nin their ear,\" said Susan with a relish, as she settled down to examine\na map of Eastern Europe, prodding each locality with the knitting\nneedle to brand it on her memory. \"Cousin Sophia said awhile ago that\nSerbia was done for, but I told her there was still such a thing as an\nover-ruling Providence, doubt it who might. It says here that the\nslaughter was terrible. For all they were foreigners it is awful to\nthink of so many men being killed, Mrs. Dr. dear--for they are scarce\nenough as it is.\"\n\nRilla was upstairs relieving her over-charged feelings by writing in\nher diary.\n\n\"Things have all 'gone catawampus,' as Susan says, with me this week.\nPart of it was my own fault and part of it wasn't, and I seem to be\nequally unhappy over both parts.\n\n\"I went to town the other day to buy a new winter hat. It was the first\ntime nobody insisted on coming with me to help me select it, and I felt\nthat mother had really given up thinking of me as a child. And I found\nthe dearest hat--it was simply bewitching. It was a velvet hat, of the\nvery shade of rich green that was made for me. It just goes with my\nhair and complexion beautifully, bringing out the red-brown shades and\nwhat Miss Oliver calls my 'creaminess' so well. Only once before in my\nlife have I come across that precise shade of green. When I was twelve\nI had a little beaver hat of it, and all the girls in school were wild\nover it. Well, as soon as I saw this hat I felt that I simply must have\nit--and have it I did. The price was dreadful. I will not put it down\nhere because I don't want my descendants to know I was guilty of paying\nso much for a hat, in war-time, too, when everybody is--or should\nbe--trying to be economical.\n\n\"When I got home and tried on the hat again in my room I was assailed\nby qualms. Of course, it was very becoming; but somehow it seemed too\nelaborate and fussy for church going and our quiet little doings in the\nGlen--too conspicuous, in short. It hadn't seemed so at the milliner's\nbut here in my little white room it did. And that dreadful price tag!\nAnd the starving Belgians! When mother saw the hat and the tag she just\nlooked at me. Mother is some expert at looking. Father says she looked\nhim into love with her years ago in Avonlea school and I can well\nbelieve it--though I have heard a weird tale of her banging him over\nthe head with a slate at the very beginning of their acquaintance.\nMother was a limb when she was a little girl, I understand, and even up\nto the time when Jem went away she was full of ginger. But let me\nreturn to my mutton--that is to say, my new green velvet hat.\n\n\"'Do you think, Rilla,' mother said quietly--far too quietly--'that it\nwas right to spend so much for a hat, especially when the need of the\nworld is so great?'\n\n\"'I paid for it out of my own allowance, mother,' I exclaimed.\n\n\"'That is not the point. Your allowance is based on the principle of a\nreasonable amount for each thing you need. If you pay too much for one\nthing you must cut off somewhere else and that is not satisfactory. But\nif you think you did right, Rilla, I have no more to say. I leave it to\nyour conscience.'\n\n\"I wish mother would not leave things to my conscience! And anyway,\nwhat was I to do? I couldn't take that hat back--I had worn it to a\nconcert in town--I had to keep it! I was so uncomfortable that I flew\ninto a temper--a cold, calm, deadly temper.\n\n\"'Mother,' I said haughtily, 'I am sorry you disapprove of my hat--'\n\n\"'Not of the hat exactly,' said mother, 'though I consider it in\ndoubtful taste for so young a girl--but of the price you paid for it.'\n\n\"Being interrupted didn't improve my temper, so I went on, colder and\ncalmer and deadlier than ever, just as if mother had not spoken.\n\n\"'--but I have to keep it now. However, I promise you that I will not\nget another hat for three years or for the duration of the war, if it\nlasts longer than that. Even you'--oh, the sarcasm I put into the\n'you'--'cannot say that what I paid was too much when spread over at\nleast three years.'\n\n\"'You will be very tired of that hat before three years, Rilla,' said\nmother, with a provoking grin, which, being interpreted, meant that I\nwouldn't stick it out.\n\n\"'Tired or not, I will wear it that long,' I said: and then I marched\nupstairs and cried to think that I had been sarcastic to mother.\n\n\"I hate that hat already. But three years or the duration of the war, I\nsaid, and three years or the duration of the war it shall be. I vowed\nand I shall keep my vow, cost what it will.\n\n\"That is one of the 'catawampus' things. The other is that I have\nquarrelled with Irene Howard--or she quarrelled with me--or, no, we\nboth quarrelled.\n\n\"The Junior Red Cross met here yesterday. The hour of meeting was\nhalf-past two but Irene came at half-past one, because she got the\nchance of a drive down from the Upper Glen. Irene hasn't been a bit\nnice to me since the fuss about the eats; and besides I feel sure she\nresents not being president. But I have been determined that things\nshould go smoothly, so I have never taken any notice, and when she came\nyesterday she seemed so nice and sweet again that I hoped she had got\nover her huffiness and we could be the chums we used to be.\n\n\"But as soon as we sat down Irene began to rub me the wrong way. I saw\nher cast a look at my new knitting-bag. All the girls have always said\nIrene was jealous-minded and I would never believe them before. But now\nI feel that perhaps she is.\n\n\"The first thing she did was to pounce on Jims--Irene pretends to adore\nbabies--pick him out of his cradle and kiss him all over his face. Now,\nIrene knows perfectly well that I don't like to have Jims kissed like\nthat. It is not hygienic. After she had worried him till he began to\nfuss, she looked at me and gave quite a nasty little laugh but she\nsaid, oh, so sweetly,\n\n\"'Why, Rilla, darling, you look as if you thought I was poisoning the\nbaby.'\n\n\"'Oh, no, I don't, Irene,' I said--every bit as sweetly, 'but you know\nMorgan says that the only place a baby should be kissed is on its\nforehead, for fear of germs, and that is my rule with Jims.'\n\n\"'Dear me, am I so full of germs?' said Irene plaintively. I knew she\nwas making fun of me and I began to boil inside--but outside no sign of\na simmer. I was determined I would not scrap with Irene.\n\n\"Then she began to bounce Jims. Now, Morgan says bouncing is almost the\nworst thing that can be done to a baby. I never allow Jims to be\nbounced. But Irene bounced him and that exasperating child liked it. He\nsmiled--for the very first time. He is four months old and he has never\nsmiled once before. Not even mother or Susan have been able to coax\nthat thing to smile, try as they would. And here he was smiling because\nIrene Howard bounced him! Talk of gratitude!\n\n\"I admit that smile made a big difference in him. Two of the dearest\ndimples came out in his cheeks and his big brown eyes seemed full of\nlaughter. The way Irene raved over those dimples was silly, I consider.\nYou would have supposed she thought she had really brought them into\nexistence. But I sewed steadily and did not enthuse, and soon Irene got\ntired of bouncing Jims and put him back in his cradle. He did not like\nthat after being played with, and he began to cry and was fussy the\nrest of the afternoon, whereas if Irene had only left him alone he\nwould not have been a bit of trouble.\n\n\"Irene looked at him and said, 'Does he often cry like that?' as if she\nhad never heard a baby crying before.\n\n\"I explained patiently that children have to cry so many minutes per\nday in order to expand their lungs. Morgan says so.\n\n\"'If Jims didn't cry at all I'd have to make him cry for at least\ntwenty minutes,' I said.\n\n\"'Oh, indeed!' said Irene, laughing as if she didn't believe me.\n'Morgan on the Care of Infants' was upstairs or I would soon have\nconvinced her. Then she said Jims didn't have much hair--she had never\nseen a four months' old baby so bald.\n\n\"Of course, I knew Jims hadn't much hair--yet; but Irene said it in a\ntone that seemed to imply it was my fault that he hadn't any hair. I\nsaid I had seen dozens of babies every bit as bald as Jims, and Irene\nsaid, Oh very well, she hadn't meant to offend me--when I wasn't\noffended.\n\n\"It went on like that the rest of the hour--Irene kept giving me little\ndigs all the time. The girls have always said she was revengeful like\nthat if she were peeved about anything; but I never believed it before;\nI used to think Irene just perfect, and it hurt me dreadfully to find\nshe could stoop to this. But I corked up my feelings and sewed away for\ndear life on a Belgian child's nightgown.\n\n\"Then Irene told me the meanest, most contemptible thing that someone\nhad said about Walter. I won't write it down--I can't. Of course, she\nsaid it made her furious to hear it and all that--but there was no need\nfor her to tell me such a thing even if she did hear it. She simply did\nit to hurt me.\n\n\"I just exploded. 'How dare you come here and repeat such a thing about\nmy brother, Irene Howard?' I exclaimed. 'I shall never forgive\nyou--never. Your brother hasn't enlisted--hasn't any idea of enlisting.'\n\n\"'Why Rilla, dear, I didn't say it,' said Irene. 'I told you it was\nMrs. George Burr. And I told her--'\n\n\"'I don't want to hear what you told her. Don't you ever speak to me\nagain, Irene Howard.'\n\n\"Oh course, I shouldn't have said that. But it just seemed to say\nitself. Then the other girls all came in a bunch and I had to calm down\nand act the hostess' part as well as I could. Irene paired off with\nOlive Kirk all the rest of the afternoon and went away without so much\nas a look. So I suppose she means to take me at my word and I don't\ncare, for I do not want to be friends with a girl who could repeat such\na falsehood about Walter. But I feel unhappy over it for all that.\nWe've always been such good chums and until lately Irene was lovely to\nme; and now another illusion has been stripped from my eyes and I feel\nas if there wasn't such a thing as real true friendship in the world.\n\n\"Father got old Joe Mead to build a kennel for Dog Monday in the corner\nof the shipping-shed today. We thought perhaps Monday would come home\nwhen the cold weather came but he wouldn't. No earthly influence can\ncoax Monday away from that shed even for a few minutes. There he stays\nand meets every train. So we had to do something to make him\ncomfortable. Joe built the kennel so that Monday could lie in it and\nstill see the platform, so we hope he will occupy it.\n\n\"Monday has become quite famous. A reporter of the Enterprise came out\nfrom town and photographed him and wrote up the whole story of his\nfaithful vigil. It was published in the Enterprise and copied all over\nCanada. But that doesn't matter to poor little Monday, Jem has gone\naway--Monday doesn't know where or why--but he will wait until he comes\nback. Somehow it comforts me: it's foolish, I suppose, but it gives me\na feeling that Jem will come back or else Monday wouldn't keep on\nwaiting for him.\n\n\"Jims is snoring beside me in his cradle. It is just a cold that makes\nhim snore--not adenoids. Irene had a cold yesterday and I know she gave\nit to him, kissing him. He is not quite such a nuisance as he was; he\nhas got some backbone and can sit up quite nicely, and he loves his\nbath now and splashes unsmilingly in the water instead of twisting and\nshrieking. Oh, shall I ever forget those first two months! I don't know\nhow I lived through them. But here I am and here is Jims and we both\nare going to 'carry on.' I tickled him a little bit tonight when I\nundressed him--I wouldn't bounce him but Morgan doesn't mention\ntickling--just to see if he would smile for me as well as Irene. And he\ndid--and out popped the dimples. What a pity his mother couldn't have\nseen them!\n\n\"I finished my sixth pair of socks today. With the first three I got\nSusan to set the heel for me. Then I thought that was a bit of\nshirking, so I learned to do it myself. I hate it--but I have done so\nmany things I hate since 4th of August that one more or less doesn't\nmatter. I just think of Jem joking about the mud on Salisbury Plain and\nI go at them.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nDARK AND BRIGHT\n\nAt Christmas the college boys and girls came home and for a little\nwhile Ingleside was gay again. But all were not there--for the first\ntime one was missing from the circle round the Christmas table. Jem, of\nthe steady lips and fearless eyes, was far away, and Rilla felt that\nthe sight of his vacant chair was more than she could endure. Susan had\ntaken a stubborn freak and insisted on setting out Jem's place for him\nas usual, with the twisted little napkin ring he had always had since a\nboy, and the odd, high Green Gables goblet that Aunt Marilla had once\ngiven him and from which he always insisted on drinking.\n\n\"That blessed boy shall have his place, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" said Susan\nfirmly, \"and do not you feel over it, for you may be sure he is here in\nspirit and next Christmas he will be here in the body. Wait you till\nthe Big Push comes in the spring and the war will be over in a jiffy.\"\n\nThey tried to think so, but a shadow stalked in the background of their\ndetermined merrymaking. Walter, too, was quiet and dull, all through\nthe holidays. He showed Rilla a cruel, anonymous letter he had received\nat Redmond--a letter far more conspicuous for malice than for patriotic\nindignation.\n\n\"Nevertheless, all it says is true, Rilla.\"\n\nRilla had caught it from him and thrown it into the fire.\n\n\"There isn't one word of truth in it,\" she declared hotly. \"Walter,\nyou've got morbid--as Miss Oliver says she gets when she broods too\nlong over one thing.\"\n\n\"I can't get away from it at Redmond, Rilla. The whole college is\naflame over the war. A perfectly fit fellow, of military age, who\ndoesn't join up is looked upon as a shirker and treated accordingly.\nDr. Milne, the English professor, who has always made a special pet of\nme, has two sons in khaki; and I can feel the change in his manner\ntowards me.\"\n\n\"It's not fair--you're not fit.\"\n\n\"Physically I am. Sound as a bell. The unfitness is in the soul and\nit's a taint and a disgrace. There, don't cry, Rilla. I'm not going if\nthat's what you're afraid of. The Piper's music rings in my ears day\nand night--but I cannot follow.\"\n\n\"You would break mother's heart and mine if you did,\" sobbed Rilla.\n\"Oh, Walter, one is enough for any family.\"\n\nThe holidays were an unhappy time for her. Still, having Nan and Di and\nWalter and Shirley home helped in the enduring of things. A letter and\nbook came for her from Kenneth Ford, too; some sentences in the letter\nmade her cheeks burn and her heart beat--until the last paragraph,\nwhich sent an icy chill over everything.\n\n\"My ankle is about as good as new. I'll be fit to join up in a couple\nof months more, Rilla-my-Rilla. It will be some feeling to get into\nkhaki all right. Little Ken will be able to look the whole world in the\nface then and owe not any man. It's been rotten lately, since I've been\nable to walk without limping. People who don't know look at me as much\nas to say 'Slacker!' Well, they won't have the chance to look it much\nlonger.\"\n\n\"I hate this war,\" said Rilla bitterly, as she gazed out into the maple\ngrove that was a chill glory of pink and gold in the winter sunset.\n\n\"Nineteen-fourteen has gone,\" said Dr. Blythe on New Year's Day. \"Its\nsun, which rose fairly, has set in blood. What will nineteen-fifteen\nbring?\"\n\n\"Victory!\" said Susan, for once laconic.\n\n\"Do you really believe we'll win the war, Susan?\" said Miss Oliver\ndrearily. She had come over from Lowbridge to spend the day and see\nWalter and the girls before they went back to Redmond. She was in a\nrather blue and cynical mood and inclined to look on the dark side.\n\n\"'Believe' we'll win the war!\" exclaimed Susan. \"No, Miss Oliver, dear,\nI do not believe--I know. That does not worry me. What does worry me is\nthe trouble and expense of it all. But then you cannot make omelets\nwithout breaking eggs, so we must just trust in God and make big guns.\"\n\n\"Sometimes I think the big guns are better to trust in than God,\" said\nMiss Oliver defiantly.\n\n\"No, no, dear, you do not. The Germans had the big guns at the Marne,\nhad they not? But Providence settled them. Do not ever forget that.\nJust hold on to that when you feel inclined to doubt. Clutch hold of\nthe sides of your chair and sit tight and keep saying, 'Big guns are\ngood but the Almighty is better, and He is on our side, no matter what\nthe Kaiser says about it.' I would have gone crazy many a day lately,\nMiss Oliver, dear, if I had not sat tight and repeated that to myself.\nMy cousin Sophia is, like you, somewhat inclined to despond. 'Oh, dear\nme, what will we do if the Germans ever get here,' she wailed to me\nyesterday. 'Bury them,' said I, just as off-hand as that. 'There is\nplenty of room for the graves.' Cousin Sophia said that I was flippant\nbut I was not flippant, Miss Oliver, dear, only calm and confident in\nthe British navy and our Canadian boys. I am like old Mr. William\nPollock of the Harbour Head. He is very old and has been ill for a long\ntime, and one night last week he was so low that his daughter-in-law\nwhispered to some one that she thought he was dead. 'Darn it, I ain't,'\nhe called right out--only, Miss Oliver, dear, he did not use so mild a\nword as 'darn'--'darn it, I ain't, and I don't mean to die until the\nKaiser is well licked.' Now, that, Miss Oliver, dear,\" concluded Susan,\n\"is the kind of spirit I admire.\"\n\n\"I admire it but I can't emulate it,\" sighed Gertrude. \"Before this, I\nhave always been able to escape from the hard things of life for a\nlittle while by going into dreamland, and coming back like a giant\nrefreshed. But I can't escape from this.\"\n\n\"Nor I,\" said Mrs. Blythe. \"I hate going to bed now. All my life I've\nliked going to bed, to have a gay, mad, splendid half-hour of imagining\nthings before sleeping. Now I imagine them still. But such different\nthings.\"\n\n\"I am rather glad when the time comes to go to bed,\" said Miss Oliver.\n\"I like the darkness because I can be myself in it--I needn't smile or\ntalk bravely. But sometimes my imagination gets out of hand, too, and I\nsee what you do--terrible things--terrible years to come.\"\n\n\"I am very thankful that I never had any imagination to speak of,\" said\nSusan. \"I have been spared that. I see by this paper that the Crown\nPrince is killed again. Do you suppose there is any hope of his staying\ndead this time? And I also see that Woodrow Wilson is going to write\nanother note. I wonder,\" concluded Susan, with the bitter irony she had\nof late begun to use when referring to the poor President, \"if that\nman's schoolmaster is alive.\"\n\nIn January Jims was five months old and Rilla celebrated the\nanniversary by shortening him.\n\n\"He weighs fourteen pounds,\" she announced jubilantly. \"Just exactly\nwhat he should weigh at five months, according to Morgan.\"\n\nThere was no longer any doubt in anybody's mind that Jims was getting\npositively pretty. His little cheeks were round and firm and faintly\npink, his eyes were big and bright, his tiny paws had dimples at the\nroot of every finger. He had even begun to grow hair, much to Rilla's\nunspoken relief. There was a pale golden fuzz all over his head that\nwas distinctly visible in some lights. He was a good infant, generally\nsleeping and digesting as Morgan decreed. Occasionally he smiled but he\nhad never laughed, in spite of all efforts to make him. This worried\nRilla also, because Morgan said that babies usually laughed aloud from\nthe third to the fifth month. Jims was five months and had no notion of\nlaughing. Why hadn't he? Wasn't he normal?\n\nOne night Rilla came home late from a recruiting meeting at the Glen\nwhere she had been giving patriotic recitations. Rilla had never been\nwilling to recite in public before. She was afraid of her tendency to\nlisp, which had a habit of reviving if she were doing anything that\nmade her nervous. When she had first been asked to recite at the Upper\nGlen meeting she had refused. Then she began to worry over her refusal.\nWas it cowardly? What would Jem think if he knew? After two days of\nworry Rilla phoned to the president of the Patriotic Society that she\nwould recite. She did, and lisped several times, and lay awake most of\nthe night in an agony of wounded vanity. Then two nights after she\nrecited again at Harbour Head. She had been at Lowbridge and\nover-harbour since then and had become resigned to an occasional lisp.\nNobody except herself seemed to mind it. And she was so earnest and\nappealing and shining-eyed! More than one recruit joined up because\nRilla's eyes seemed to look right at him when she passionately demanded\nhow could men die better than fighting for the ashes of their fathers\nand the temples of their gods, or assured her audience with thrilling\nintensity that one crowded hour of glorious life was worth an age\nwithout a name. Even stolid Miller Douglas was so fired one night that\nit took Mary Vance a good hour to talk him back to sense. Mary Vance\nsaid bitterly that if Rilla Blythe felt as bad as she had pretended to\nfeel over Jem's going to the front she wouldn't be urging other girls'\nbrothers and friends to go.\n\nOn this particular night Rilla was tired and cold and very thankful to\ncreep into her warm nest and cuddle down between her blankets, though\nas usual with a sorrowful wonder how Jem and Jerry were faring. She was\njust getting warm and drowsy when Jims suddenly began to cry--and kept\non crying.\n\nRilla curled herself up in her bed and determined she would let him\ncry. She had Morgan behind her for justification. Jims was warm,\nphysically comfortable--his cry wasn't the cry of pain--and had his\nlittle tummy as full as was good for him. Under such circumstances it\nwould be simply spoiling him to fuss over him, and she wasn't going to\ndo it. He could cry until he got good and tired and ready to go to\nsleep again.\n\nThen Rilla's imagination began to torment her. Suppose, she thought, I\nwas a tiny, helpless creature only five months old, with my father\nsomewhere in France and my poor little mother, who had been so worried\nabout me, in the graveyard. Suppose I was lying in a basket in a big,\nblack room, without one speck of light, and nobody within miles of me,\nfor all I could see or know. Suppose there wasn't a human being\nanywhere who loved me--for a father who had never seen me couldn't love\nme very much, especially when he had never written a word to or about\nme. Wouldn't I cry, too? Wouldn't I feel just so lonely and forsaken\nand frightened that I'd have to cry?\n\nRilla hopped out. She picked Jims out of his basket and took him into\nher own bed. His hands were cold, poor mite. But he had promptly ceased\nto cry. And then, as she held him close to her in the darkness,\nsuddenly Jims laughed--a real, gurgly, chuckly, delighted, delightful\nlaugh.\n\n\"Oh, you dear little thing!\" exclaimed Rilla. \"Are you so pleased at\nfinding you're not all alone, lost in a huge, big, black room?\" Then\nshe knew she wanted to kiss him and she did. She kissed his silky,\nscented little head, she kissed his chubby little cheek, she kissed his\nlittle cold hands. She wanted to squeeze him--to cuddle him, just as\nshe used to squeeze and cuddle her kittens. Something delightful and\nyearning and brooding seemed to have taken possession of her. She had\nnever felt like this before.\n\nIn a few minutes Jims was sound asleep; and, as Rilla listened to his\nsoft, regular breathing and felt the little body warm and contented\nagainst her, she realized that--at last--she loved her war-baby.\n\n\"He has got to be--such--a--darling,\" she thought drowsily, as she\ndrifted off to slumberland herself.\n\nIn February Jem and Jerry and Robert Grant were in the trenches and a\nlittle more tension and dread was added to the Ingleside life. In March\n\"Yiprez,\" as Susan called it, had come to have a bitter significance.\nThe daily list of casualties had begun to appear in the papers and no\none at Ingleside ever answered the telephone without a horrible cold\nshrinking--for it might be the station-master phoning up to say a\ntelegram had come from overseas. No one at Ingleside ever got up in the\nmorning without a sudden piercing wonder over what the day might bring.\n\n\"And I used to welcome the mornings so,\" thought Rilla.\n\nYet the round of life and duty went steadily on and every week or so\none of the Glen lads who had just the other day been a rollicking\nschoolboy went into khaki.\n\n\"It is bitter cold out tonight, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" said Susan, coming in\nout of the clear starlit crispness of the Canadian winter twilight. \"I\nwonder if the boys in the trenches are warm.\"\n\n\"How everything comes back to this war,\" cried Gertrude Oliver. \"We\ncan't get away from it--not even when we talk of the weather. I never\ngo out these dark cold nights myself without thinking of the men in the\ntrenches--not only our men but everybody's men. I would feel the same\nif there were nobody I knew at the front. When I snuggle down in my\ncomfortable bed I am ashamed of being comfortable. It seems as if it\nwere wicked of me to be so when many are not.\"\n\n\"I saw Mrs. Meredith down at the store,\" said Susan, \"and she tells me\nthat they are really troubled over Bruce, he takes things so much to\nheart. He has cried himself to sleep for a week, over the starving\nBelgians. 'Oh, mother,' he will say to her, so beseeching-like, 'surely\nthe babies are never hungry--oh, not the babies, mother! Just say the\nbabies are not hungry, mother.' And she cannot say it because it would\nnot be true, and she is at her wits' end. They try to keep such things\nfrom him but he finds them out and then they cannot comfort him. It\nbreaks my heart to read about them myself, Mrs. Dr. dear, and I cannot\nconsole myself with the thought that the tales are not true. When I\nread a novel that makes me want to weep I just say severely to myself,\n'Now, Susan Baker, you know that is all a pack of lies.' But we must\ncarry on. Jack Crawford says he is going to the war because he is tired\nof farming. I hope he will find it a pleasant change. And Mrs. Richard\nElliott over-harbour is worrying herself sick because she used to be\nalways scolding her husband about smoking up the parlour curtains. Now\nthat he has enlisted she wishes she had never said a word to him. You\nknow Josiah Cooper and William Daley, Mrs. Dr. dear. They used to be\nfast friends but they quarrelled twenty years ago and have never spoken\nsince. Well, the other day Josiah went to William and said right out,\n'Let us be friends. 'Tain't any time to be holding grudges.' William\nwas real glad and held out his hand, and they sat down for a good talk.\nAnd in less than half an hour they had quarrelled again, over how the\nwar ought to be fought, Josiah holding that the Dardanelles expedition\nwas rank folly and William maintaining that it was the one sensible\nthing the Allies had done. And now they are madder at each other than\never and William says Josiah is as bad a pro-German as\nWhiskers-on-the-Moon. Whiskers-on-the-moon vows he is no pro-German but\ncalls himself a pacifist, whatever that may be. It is nothing proper or\nWhiskers would not be it and that you may tie to. He says that the big\nBritish victory at New Chapelle cost more than it was worth and he has\nforbid Joe Milgrave to come near the house because Joe ran up his\nfather's flag when the news came. Have you noticed, Mrs. Dr. dear, that\nthe Czar has changed that Prish name to Premysl, which proves that the\nman had good sense, Russian though he is? Joe Vickers told me in the\nstore that he saw a very queer looking thing in the sky tonight over\nLowbridge way. Do you suppose it could have been a Zeppelin, Mrs. Dr.\ndear?\"\n\n\"I do not think it very likely, Susan.\"\n\n\"Well, I would feel easier about it if Whiskers-on-the-moon were not\nliving in the Glen. They say he was seen going through strange\nmanoeuvres with a lantern in his back yard one night lately. Some\npeople think he was signalling.\"\n\n\"To whom--or what?\"\n\n\"Ah, that is the mystery, Mrs. Dr. dear. In my opinion the Government\nwould do well to keep an eye on that man if it does not want us to be\nall murdered in our beds some night. Now I shall just look over the\npapers a minute before going to write a letter to little Jem. Two\nthings I never did, Mrs. Dr. dear, were write letters and read\npolitics. Yet here I am doing both regular and I find there is\nsomething in politics after all. Whatever Woodrow Wilson means I cannot\nfathom but I am hoping I will puzzle it out yet.\"\n\nSusan, in her pursuit of Wilson and politics, presently came upon\nsomething that disturbed her and exclaimed in a tone of bitter\ndisappointment,\n\n\"That devilish Kaiser has only a boil after all.\"\n\n\"Don't swear, Susan,\" said Dr. Blythe, pulling a long face.\n\n\"'Devilish' is not swearing, doctor, dear. I have always understood\nthat swearing was taking the name of the Almighty in vain?\"\n\n\"Well, it isn't--ahem--refined,\" said the doctor, winking at Miss\nOliver.\n\n\"No, doctor, dear, the devil and the Kaiser--if so be that they are\nreally two different people--are not refined. And you cannot refer to\nthem in a refined way. So I abide by what I said, although you may\nnotice that I am careful not to use such expressions when young Rilla\nis about. And I maintain that the papers have no right to say that the\nKaiser has pneumonia and raise people's hopes, and then come out and\nsay he has nothing but a boil. A boil, indeed! I wish he was covered\nwith them.\"\n\nSusan stalked out to the kitchen and settled down to write to Jem;\ndeeming him in need of some home comfort from certain passages in his\nletter that day.\n\n\"We're in an old wine cellar tonight, dad,\" he wrote, \"in water to our\nknees. Rats everywhere--no fire--a drizzling rain coming down--rather\ndismal. But it might be worse. I got Susan's box today and everything\nwas in tip-top order and we had a feast. Jerry is up the line somewhere\nand he says the rations are rather worse than Aunt Martha's ditto used\nto be. But here they're not bad--only monotonous. Tell Susan I'd give a\nyear's pay for a good batch of her monkey-faces; but don't let that\ninspire her to send any for they wouldn't keep.\n\n\"We have been under fire since the last week in February. One boy--he\nwas a Nova Scotian--was killed right beside me yesterday. A shell burst\nnear us and when the mess cleared away he was lying dead--not mangled\nat all--he just looked a little startled. It was the first time I'd\nbeen close to anything like that and it was a nasty sensation, but one\nsoon gets used to horrors here. We're in an absolutely different world.\nThe only things that are the same are the stars--and they are never in\ntheir right places, somehow.\n\n\"Tell mother not to worry--I'm all right--fit as a fiddle--and glad I\ncame. There's something across from us here that has got to be wiped\nout of the world, that's all--an emanation of evil that would otherwise\npoison life for ever. It's got to be done, dad, however long it takes,\nand whatever it costs, and you tell the Glen people this for me. They\ndon't realize yet what it is has broken loose--I didn't when I first\njoined up. I thought it was fun. Well, it isn't! But I'm in the right\nplace all right--make no mistake about that. When I saw what had been\ndone here to homes and gardens and people--well, dad, I seemed to see a\ngang of Huns marching through Rainbow Valley and the Glen, and the\ngarden at Ingleside. There were gardens over here--beautiful gardens\nwith the beauty of centuries--and what are they now? Mangled,\ndesecrated things! We are fighting to make those dear old places where\nwe had played as children, safe for other boys and girls--fighting for\nthe preservation and safety of all sweet, wholesome things.\n\n\"Whenever any of you go to the station be sure to give Dog Monday a\ndouble pat for me. Fancy the faithful little beggar waiting there for\nme like that! Honestly, dad, on some of these dark cold nights in the\ntrenches, it heartens and braces me up no end to think that thousands\nof miles away at the old Glen station there is a small spotted dog\nsharing my vigil.\n\n\"Tell Rilla I'm glad her war-baby is turning out so well, and tell\nSusan that I'm fighting a good fight against both Huns and cooties.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Dr. dear,\" whispered Susan solemnly, \"what are cooties?\"\n\nMrs. Blythe whispered back and then said in reply to Susan's horrified\nejaculations, \"It's always like that in the trenches, Susan.\"\n\nSusan shook her head and went away in grim silence to re-open a parcel\nshe had sewed up for Jem and slip in a fine tooth comb.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nIN THE DAYS OF LANGEMARCK\n\n\"How can spring come and be beautiful in such a horror,\" wrote Rilla in\nher diary. \"When the sun shines and the fluffy yellow catkins are\ncoming out on the willow-trees down by the brook, and the garden is\nbeginning to be beautiful I can't realize that such dreadful things are\nhappening in Flanders. But they are!\n\n\"This past week has been terrible for us all, since the news came of\nthe fighting around Ypres and the battles of Langemarck and St. Julien.\nOur Canadian boys have done splendidly--General French says they 'saved\nthe situation,' when the Germans had all but broken through. But I\ncan't feel pride or exultation or anything but a gnawing anxiety over\nJem and Jerry and Mr. Grant. The casualty lists are coming out in the\npapers every day--oh, there are so many of them. I can't bear to read\nthem for fear I'd find Jem's name--for there have been cases where\npeople have seen their boys' names in the casualty lists before the\nofficial telegram came. As for the telephone, for a day or two I just\nrefused to answer it, because I thought I could not endure the horrible\nmoment that came between saying 'Hello' and hearing the response. That\nmoment seemed a hundred years long, for I was always dreading to hear\n'There is a telegram for Dr. Blythe.' Then, when I had shirked for a\nwhile, I was ashamed of leaving it all for mother or Susan, and now I\nmake myself go. But it never gets any easier. Gertrude teaches school\nand reads compositions and sets examination papers just as she always\nhas done, but I know her thoughts are over in Flanders all the time.\nHer eyes haunt me.\n\n\"And Kenneth is in khaki now, too. He has got a lieutenant's commission\nand expects to go overseas in midsummer, so he wrote me. There wasn't\nmuch else in the letter--he seemed to be thinking of nothing but going\noverseas. I shall not see him again before he goes--perhaps I will\nnever see him again. Sometimes I ask myself if that evening at Four\nWinds was all a dream. It might as well be--it seems as if it happened\nin another life lived years ago--and everybody has forgotten it but me.\n\n\"Walter and Nan and Di came home last night from Redmond. When Walter\nstepped off the train Dog Monday rushed to meet him, frantic with joy.\nI suppose he thought Jem would be there, too. After the first moment,\nhe paid no attention to Walter and his pats, but just stood there,\nwagging his tail nervously and looking past Walter at the other people\ncoming out, with eyes that made me choke up, for I couldn't help\nthinking that, for all we knew, Monday might never see Jem come off\nthat train again. Then, when all the people were out, Monday looked up\nat Walter, gave his hand a little lick as if to say, 'I know it isn't\nyour fault he didn't come--excuse me for feeling disappointed,' and\nthen he trotted back to his shed, with that funny little sidelong\nwaggle of his that always makes it seem that his hind legs are\ntravelling directly away from the point at which his forelegs are\naiming.\n\n\"We tried to coax him home with us--Di even got down and kissed him\nbetween the eyes and said, 'Monday, old duck, won't you come up with us\njust for the evening?' And Monday said--he did!--'I am very sorry but I\ncan't. I've got a date to meet Jem here, you know, and there's a train\ngoes through at eight.'\n\n\"It's lovely to have Walter back again though he seems quiet and sad,\njust as he was at Christmas. But I'm going to love him hard and cheer\nhim up and make him laugh as he used to. It seems to me that every day\nof my life Walter means more to me.\n\n\"The other evening Susan happened to say that the mayflowers were out\nin Rainbow Valley. I chanced to be looking at mother when Susan spoke.\nHer face changed and she gave a queer little choked cry. Most of the\ntime mother is so spunky and gay you would never guess what she feels\ninside; but now and then some little thing is too much for her and we\nsee under the surface. 'Mayflowers!' she said. 'Jem brought me\nmayflowers last year!' and she got up and went out of the room. I would\nhave rushed off to Rainbow Valley and brought her an armful of\nmayflowers, but I knew that wasn't what she wanted. And after Walter\ngot home last night he slipped away to the valley and brought mother\nhome all the mayflowers he could find. Nobody had said a word to him\nabout it--he just remembered himself that Jem used to bring mother the\nfirst mayflowers and so he brought them in Jem's place. It shows how\ntender and thoughtful he is. And yet there are people who send him\ncruel letters!\n\n\"It seems strange that we can go in with ordinary life just as if\nnothing were happening overseas that concerned us, just as if any day\nmight not bring us awful news. But we can and do. Susan is putting in\nthe garden, and mother and she are housecleaning, and we Junior Reds\nare getting up a concert in aid of the Belgians. We have been\npractising for a month and having no end of trouble and bother with\ncranky people. Miranda Pryor promised to help with a dialogue and when\nshe had her part all learnt her father put his foot down and refused to\nallow her to help at all. I am not blaming Miranda exactly, but I do\nthink she might have a little more spunk sometimes. If she put her foot\ndown once in a while she might bring her father to terms, for she is\nall the housekeeper he has and what would he do if she 'struck'? If I\nwere in Miranda's shoes I'd find some way of managing\nWhiskers-on-the-moon. I would horse-whip him, or bite him, if nothing\nelse would serve. But Miranda is a meek and obedient daughter whose\ndays should be long in the land.\n\n\"I couldn't get anyone else to take the part, because nobody liked it,\nso finally I had to take it myself. Olive Kirk is on the concert\ncommittee and goes against me in every single thing. But I got my way\nin asking Mrs. Channing to come out from town and sing for us, anyhow.\nShe is a beautiful singer and will draw such a crowd that we will make\nmore than we will have to pay her. Olive Kirk thought our local talent\ngood enough and Minnie Clow won't sing at all now in the choruses\nbecause she would be so nervous before Mrs. Channing. And Minnie is the\nonly good alto we have! There are times when I am so exasperated that I\nfeel tempted to wash my hands of the whole affair; but after I dance\nround my room a few times in sheer rage I cool down and have another\nwhack at it. Just at present I am racked with worry for fear the Isaac\nReeses are taking whooping-cough. They have all got a dreadful cold and\nthere are five of them who have important parts in the programme and if\nthey go and develop whooping-cough what shall I do? Dick Reese's violin\nsolo is to be one of our titbits and Kit Reese is in every tableau and\nthe three small girls have the cutest flag-drill. I've been toiling for\nweeks to train them in it, and now it seems likely that all my trouble\nwill go for nothing.\n\n\"Jims cut his first tooth today. I am very glad, for he is nearly nine\nmonths old and Mary Vance has been insinuating that he is awfully\nbackward about cutting his teeth. He has begun to creep but doesn't\ncrawl as most babies do. He trots about on all fours and carries things\nin his mouth like a little dog. Nobody can say he isn't up to schedule\ntime in the matter of creeping anyway--away ahead of it indeed, since\nten months is Morgan's average for creeping. He is so cute, it will be\na shame if his dad never sees him. His hair is coming on nicely too,\nand I am not without hope that it will be curly.\n\n\"Just for a few minutes, while I've been writing of Jims and the\nconcert, I've forgotten Ypres and the poison gas and the casualty\nlists. Now it all rushes back, worse than ever. Oh, if we could just\nknow that Jem is all right! I used to be so furious with Jem when he\ncalled me Spider. And now, if he would just come whistling through the\nhall and call out, 'Hello, Spider,' as he used to do, I would think it\nthe loveliest name in the world.\"\n\nRilla put away her diary and went out to the garden. The spring evening\nwas very lovely. The long, green, seaward-looking glen was filled with\ndusk, and beyond it were meadows of sunset. The harbour was radiant,\npurple here, azure there, opal elsewhere. The maple grove was beginning\nto be misty green. Rilla looked about her with wistful eyes. Who said\nthat spring was the joy of the year? It was the heart-break of the\nyear. And the pale-purply mornings and the daffodil stars and the wind\nin the old pine were so many separate pangs of the heart-break. Would\nlife ever be free from dread again?\n\n\"It's good to see P.E.I. twilight once more,\" said Walter, joining her.\n\"I didn't really remember that the sea was so blue and the roads so red\nand the wood nooks so wild and fairy haunted. Yes, the fairies still\nabide here. I vow I could find scores of them under the violets in\nRainbow Valley.\"\n\nRilla was momentarily happy. This sounded like the Walter of yore. She\nhoped he was forgetting certain things that had troubled him.\n\n\"And isn't the sky blue over Rainbow Valley?\" she said, responding to\nhis mood. \"Blue--blue--you'd have to say 'blue' a hundred times before\nyou could express how blue it is.\"\n\nSusan wandered by, her head tied up with a shawl, her hands full of\ngarden implements. Doc, stealthy and wild-eyed, was shadowing her steps\namong the spirea bushes.\n\n\"The sky may be blue,\" said Susan, \"but that cat has been Hyde all day\nso we will likely have rain tonight and by the same token I have\nrheumatism in my shoulder.\"\n\n\"It may rain--but don't think rheumatism, Susan--think violets,\" said\nWalter gaily--rather too gaily, Rilla thought.\n\nSusan considered him unsympathetic.\n\n\"Indeed, Walter dear, I do not know what you mean by thinking violets,\"\nshe responded stiffly, \"and rheumatism is not a thing to be joked\nabout, as you may some day realize for yourself. I hope I am not of the\nkind that is always complaining of their aches and pains, especially\nnow when the news is so terrible. Rheumatism is bad enough but I\nrealize, and none better, that it is not to be compared to being gassed\nby the Huns.\"\n\n\"Oh, my God, no!\" exclaimed Walter passionately. He turned and went\nback to the house.\n\nSusan shook her head. She disapproved entirely of such ejaculations. \"I\nhope he will not let his mother hear him talking like that,\" she\nthought as she stacked the hoes and rake away.\n\nRilla was standing among the budding daffodils with tear-filled eyes.\nHer evening was spoiled; she detested Susan, who had somehow hurt\nWalter; and Jem--had Jem been gassed? Had he died in torture?\n\n\"I can't endure this suspense any longer,\" said Rilla desperately.\n\nBut she endured it as the others did for another week. Then a letter\ncame from Jem. He was all right.\n\n\"I've come through without a scratch, dad. Don't know how I or any of\nus did it. You'll have seen all about it in the papers--I can't write\nof it. But the Huns haven't got through--they won't get through. Jerry\nwas knocked stiff by a shell one time, but it was only the shock. He\nwas all right in a few days. Grant is safe, too.\"\n\nNan had a letter from Jerry Meredith. \"I came back to consciousness at\ndawn,\" he wrote. \"Couldn't tell what had happened to me but thought\nthat I was done for. I was all alone and afraid--terribly afraid. Dead\nmen were all around me, lying on the horrible grey, slimy fields. I was\nwoefully thirsty--and I thought of David and the Bethlehem water--and\nof the old spring in Rainbow Valley under the maples. I seemed to see\nit just before me--and you standing laughing on the other side of\nit--and I thought it was all over with me. And I didn't care. Honestly,\nI didn't care. I just felt a dreadful childish fear of loneliness and\nof those dead men around me, and a sort of wonder how this could have\nhappened to me. Then they found me and carted me off and before long I\ndiscovered that there wasn't really anything wrong with me. I'm going\nback to the trenches tomorrow. Every man is needed there that can be\ngot.\"\n\n\"Laughter is gone out of the world,\" said Faith Meredith, who had come\nover to report on her letters. \"I remember telling old Mrs. Taylor long\nago that the world was a world of laughter. But it isn't so any longer.\"\n\n\"It's a shriek of anguish,\" said Gertrude Oliver.\n\n\"We must keep a little laughter, girls,\" said Mrs. Blythe. \"A good\nlaugh is as good as a prayer sometimes--only sometimes,\" she added\nunder her breath. She had found it very hard to laugh during the three\nweeks she had just lived through--she, Anne Blythe, to whom laughter\nhad always come so easily and freshly. And what hurt most was that\nRilla's laughter had grown so rare--Rilla whom she used to think\nlaughed over-much. Was all the child's girlhood to be so clouded? Yet\nhow strong and clever and womanly she was growing! How patiently she\nknitted and sewed and manipulated those uncertain Junior Reds! And how\nwonderful she was with Jims.\n\n\"She really could not do better for that child than if she had raised a\nbaker's dozen, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" Susan had avowed solemnly. \"Little did I\never expect it of her on the day she landed here with that soup tureen.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nA SLICE OF HUMBLE PIE\n\n\"I am very much afraid, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" said Susan, who had been on a\npilgrimage to the station with some choice bones for Dog Monday, \"that\nsomething terrible has happened. Whiskers-on-the-moon came off the\ntrain from Charlottetown and he was looking pleased. I do not remember\nthat I ever saw him with a smile on in public before. Of course he may\nhave just been getting the better of somebody in a cattle deal but I\nhave an awful presentiment that the Huns have broken through somewhere.\"\n\nPerhaps Susan was unjust in connecting Mr. Pryor's smile with the\nsinking of the Lusitania, news of which circulated an hour later when\nthe mail was distributed. But the Glen boys turned out that night in a\nbody and broke all his windows in a fine frenzy of indignation over the\nKaiser's doings.\n\n\"I do not say they did right and I do not say they did wrong,\" said\nSusan, when she heard of it. \"But I will say that I wouldn't have\nminded throwing a few stones myself. One thing is\ncertain--Whiskers-on-the-moon said in the post office the day the news\ncame, in the presence of witnesses, that folks who could not stay home\nafter they had been warned deserved no better fate. Norman Douglas is\nfairly foaming at the mouth over it all. 'If the devil doesn't get\nthose men who sunk the Lusitania then there is no use in there being a\ndevil,' he was shouting in Carter's store last night. Norman Douglas\nalways has believed that anybody who opposed him was on the side of the\ndevil, but a man like that is bound to be right once in a while. Bruce\nMeredith is worrying over the babies who were drowned. And it seems he\nprayed for something very special last Friday night and didn't get it,\nand was feeling quite disgruntled over it. But when he heard about the\nLusitania he told his mother that he understood now why God didn't\nanswer his prayer--He was too busy attending to the souls of all the\npeople who went down on the Lusitania. That child's brain is a hundred\nyears older than his body, Mrs. Dr. dear. As for the Lusitania, it is\nan awful occurrence, whatever way you look at it. But Woodrow Wilson is\ngoing to write a note about it, so why worry? A pretty president!\" and\nSusan banged her pots about wrathfully. President Wilson was rapidly\nbecoming anathema in Susan's kitchen.\n\nMary Vance dropped in one evening to tell the Ingleside folks that she\nhad withdrawn all opposition to Miller Douglas's enlisting.\n\n\"This Lusitania business was too much for me,\" said Mary brusquely.\n\"When the Kaiser takes to drowning innocent babies it's high time\nsomebody told him where he gets off at. This thing must be fought to a\nfinish. It's been soaking into my mind slow but I'm on now. So I up and\ntold Miller he could go as far as I was concerned. Old Kitty Alec won't\nbe converted though. If every ship in the world was submarined and\nevery baby drowned, Kitty wouldn't turn a hair. But I flatter myself\nthat it was me kept Miller back all along and not the fair Kitty. I may\nhave deceived myself--but we shall see.\"\n\nThey did see. The next Sunday Miller Douglas walked into the Glen\nChurch beside Mary Vance in khaki. And Mary was so proud of him that\nher white eyes fairly blazed. Joe Milgrave, back under the gallery,\nlooked at Miller and Mary and then at Miranda Pryor, and sighed so\nheavily that every one within a radius of three pews heard him and knew\nwhat his trouble was. Walter Blythe did not sigh. But Rilla, scanning\nhis face anxiously, saw a look that cut into her heart. It haunted her\nfor the next week and made an undercurrent of soreness in her soul,\nwhich was externally being harrowed up by the near approach of the Red\nCross concert and the worries connected therewith. The Reese cold had\nnot developed into whooping-cough, so that tangle was straightened out.\nBut other things were hanging in the balance; and on the very day\nbefore the concert came a regretful letter from Mrs. Channing saying\nthat she could not come to sing. Her son, who was in Kingsport with his\nregiment, was seriously ill with pneumonia, and she must go to him at\nonce.\n\nThe members of the concert committee looked at each other in blank\ndismay. What was to be done?\n\n\"This comes of depending on outside help,\" said Olive Kirk,\ndisagreeably.\n\n\"We must do something,\" said Rilla, too desperate to care for Olive's\nmanner. \"We've advertised the concert everywhere--and crowds are\ncoming--there's even a big party coming out from town--and we were\nshort enough of music as it was. We must get some one to sing in Mrs.\nChanning's place.\"\n\n\"I don't know who you can get at this late date,\" said Olive. \"Irene\nHoward could do it; but it is not likely she will after the way she was\ninsulted by our society.\"\n\n\"How did our society insult her?\" asked Rilla, in what she called her\n'cold-pale tone.' Its coldness and pallor did not daunt Olive.\n\n\"You insulted her,\" she answered sharply. \"Irene told me all about\nit--she was literally heart-broken. You told her never to speak to you\nagain--and Irene told me she simply could not imagine what she had said\nor done to deserve such treatment. That was why she never came to our\nmeetings again but joined in with the Lowbridge Red Cross. I do not\nblame her in the least, and I, for one, will not ask her to lower\nherself by helping us out of this scrape.\"\n\n\"You don't expect me to ask her?\" giggled Amy MacAllister, the other\nmember of the committee. \"Irene and I haven't spoken for a hundred\nyears. Irene is always getting 'insulted' by somebody. But she is a\nlovely singer, I'll admit that, and people would just as soon hear her\nas Mrs. Channing.\"\n\n\"It wouldn't do any good if you did ask her,\" said Olive significantly.\n\"Soon after we began planning this concert, back in April, I met Irene\nin town one day and asked her if she wouldn't help us out. She said\nshe'd love to but she really didn't see how she could when Rilla Blythe\nwas running the programme, after the strange way Rilla had behaved to\nher. So there it is and here we are, and a nice failure our concert\nwill be.\"\n\nRilla went home and shut herself up in her room, her soul in a turmoil.\nShe would not humiliate herself by apologizing to Irene Howard! Irene\nhad been as much in the wrong as she had been; and she had told such\nmean, distorted versions of their quarrel everywhere, posing as a\npuzzled, injured martyr. Rilla could never bring herself to tell her\nside of it. The fact that a slur at Walter was mixed up in it tied her\ntongue. So most people believed that Irene had been badly used, except\na few girls who had never liked her and sided with Rilla. And yet--the\nconcert over which she had worked so hard was going to be a failure.\nMrs. Channing's four solos were the feature of the whole programme.\n\n\"Miss Oliver, what do you think about it?\" she asked in desperation.\n\n\"I think Irene is the one who should apologize,\" said Miss Oliver. \"But\nunfortunately my opinion will not fill the blanks in your programme.\"\n\n\"If I went and apologized meekly to Irene she would sing, I am sure,\"\nsighed Rilla. \"She really loves to sing in public. But I know she'll be\nnasty about it--I feel I'd rather do anything than go. I suppose I\nshould go--if Jem and Jerry can face the Huns surely I can face Irene\nHoward, and swallow my pride to ask a favour of her for the good of the\nBelgians. Just at present I feel that I cannot do it but for all that I\nhave a presentiment that after supper you'll see me meekly trotting\nthrough Rainbow Valley on my way to the Upper Glen Road.\"\n\nRilla's presentiment proved correct. After supper she dressed herself\ncarefully in her blue, beaded crepe--for vanity is harder to quell than\npride and Irene always saw any flaw or shortcoming in another girl's\nappearance. Besides, as Rilla had told her mother one day when she was\nnine years old, \"It is easier to behave nicely when you have your good\nclothes on.\"\n\nRilla did her hair very becomingly and donned a long raincoat for fear\nof a shower. But all the while her thoughts were concerned with the\ncoming distasteful interview, and she kept rehearsing mentally her part\nin it. She wished it were over--she wished she had never tried to get\nup a Belgian Relief concert--she wished she had not quarreled with\nIrene. After all, disdainful silence would have been much more\neffective in meeting the slur upon Walter. It was foolish and childish\nto fly out as she had done--well, she would be wiser in the future, but\nmeanwhile a large and very unpalatable slice of humble pie had to be\neaten, and Rilla Blythe was no fonder of that wholesome article of diet\nthan the rest of us.\n\nBy sunset she was at the door of the Howard house--a pretentious abode,\nwith white scroll-work round the eaves and an eruption of bay-windows\non all its sides. Mrs. Howard, a plump, voluble dame, met Rilla\ngushingly and left her in the parlour while she went to call Irene.\nRilla threw off her rain-coat and looked at herself critically in the\nmirror over the mantel. Hair, hat, and dress were satisfactory--nothing\nthere for Miss Irene to make fun of. Rilla remembered how clever and\namusing she used to think Irene's biting little comments about other\ngirls. Well, it had come home to her now.\n\nPresently, Irene skimmed down, elegantly gowned, with her pale,\nstraw-coloured hair done in the latest and most extreme fashion, and an\nover-luscious atmosphere of perfume enveloping her.\n\n\"Why how do you do, Miss Blythe?\" she said sweetly. \"This is a very\nunexpected pleasure.\"\n\nRilla had risen to take Irene's chilly finger-tips and now, as she sat\ndown again, she saw something that temporarily stunned her. Irene saw\nit too, as she sat down, and a little amused, impertinent smile\nappeared on her lips and hovered there during the rest of the interview.\n\nOn one of Rilla's feet was a smart little steel-buckled shoe and a\nfilmy blue silk stocking. The other was clad in a stout and rather\nshabby boot and black lisle!\n\nPoor Rilla! She had changed, or begun to change her boots and stockings\nafter she had put on her dress. This was the result of doing one thing\nwith your hands and another with your brain. Oh, what a ridiculous\nposition to be in--and before Irene Howard of all people--Irene, who\nwas staring at Rilla's feet as if she had never seen feet before! And\nonce she had thought Irene's manner perfection! Everything that Rilla\nhad prepared to say vanished from her memory. Vainly trying to tuck her\nunlucky foot under her chair, she blurted out a blunt statement.\n\n\"I have come to athk a favour of you, Irene.\"\n\nThere--lisping! Oh, she had been prepared for humiliation but not to\nthis extent! Really, there were limits!\n\n\"Yes?\" said Irene in a cool, questioning tone, lifting her\nshallowly-set, insolent eyes to Rilla's crimson face for a moment and\nthen dropping them again as if she could not tear them from their\nfascinated gaze at the shabby boot and the gallant shoe.\n\nRilla gathered herself together. She would not lisp--she would be calm\nand composed.\n\n\"Mrs. Channing cannot come because her son is ill in Kingsport, and I\nhave come on behalf of the committee to ask you if you will be so kind\nas to sing for us in her place.\" Rilla enunciated every word so\nprecisely and carefully that she seemed to be reciting a lesson.\n\n\"It's something of a fiddler's invitation, isn't it?\" said Irene, with\none of her disagreeable smiles.\n\n\"Olive Kirk asked you to help when we first thought of the concert and\nyou refused,\" said Rilla.\n\n\"Why, I could hardly help--then--could I?\" asked Irene plaintively.\n\"After you ordered me never to speak to you again? It would have been\nvery awkward for us both, don't you think?\"\n\nNow for the humble pie.\n\n\"I want to apologize to you for saying that, Irene.\" said Rilla\nsteadily. \"I should not have said it and I have been very sorry ever\nsince. Will you forgive me?\"\n\n\"And sing at your concert?\" said Irene sweetly and insultingly.\n\n\"If you mean,\" said Rilla miserably, \"that I would not be apologizing\nto you if it were not for the concert perhaps that is true. But it is\nalso true that I have felt ever since it happened that I should not\nhave said what I did and that I have been sorry for it all winter. That\nis all I can say. If you feel you can't forgive me I suppose there is\nnothing more to be said.\"\n\n\"Oh, Rilla dear, don't snap me up like that,\" pleaded Irene. \"Of course\nI'll forgive you--though I did feel awfully about it--how awfully I\nhope you'll never know. I cried for weeks over it. And I hadn't said or\ndone a thing!\"\n\nRilla choked back a retort. After all, there was no use in arguing with\nIrene, and the Belgians were starving.\n\n\"Don't you think you can help us with the concert,\" she forced herself\nto say. Oh, if only Irene would stop looking at that boot! Rilla could\njust hear her giving Olive Kirk an account of it.\n\n\"I don't see how I really can at the last moment like this,\" protested\nIrene. \"There isn't time to learn anything new.\"\n\n\"Oh, you have lots of lovely songs that nobody in the Glen ever heard\nbefore,\" said Rilla, who knew Irene had been going to town all winter\nfor lessons and that this was only a pretext. \"They will all be new\ndown there.\"\n\n\"But I have no accompanist,\" protested Irene.\n\n\"Una Meredith can accompany you,\" said Rilla.\n\n\"Oh, I couldn't ask her,\" sighed Irene. \"We haven't spoken since last\nfall. She was so hateful to me the time of our Sunday-school concert\nthat I simply had to give her up.\"\n\nDear, dear, was Irene at feud with everybody? As for Una Meredith being\nhateful to anybody, the idea was so farcical that Rilla had much ado to\nkeep from laughing in Irene's very face.\n\n\"Miss Oliver is a beautiful pianist and can play any accompaniment at\nsight,\" said Rilla desperately. \"She will play for you and you could\nrun over your songs easily tomorrow evening at Ingleside before the\nconcert.\"\n\n\"But I haven't anything to wear. My new evening-dress isn't home from\nCharlottetown yet, and I simply cannot wear my old one at such a big\naffair. It is too shabby and old-fashioned.\"\n\n\"Our concert,\" said Rilla slowly, \"is in aid of Belgian children who\nare starving to death. Don't you think you could wear a shabby dress\nonce for their sake, Irene?\"\n\n\"Oh, don't you think those accounts we get of the conditions of the\nBelgians are very much exaggerated?\" said Irene. \"I'm sure they can't\nbe actually starving you know, in the twentieth century. The newspapers\nalways colour things so highly.\"\n\nRilla concluded that she had humiliated herself enough. There was such\na thing as self-respect. No more coaxing, concert or no concert. She\ngot up, boot and all.\n\n\"I am sorry you can't help us, Irene, but since you cannot we must do\nthe best we can.\"\n\nNow this did not suit Irene at all. She desired exceedingly to sing at\nthat concert, and all her hesitations were merely by way of enhancing\nthe boon of her final consent. Besides, she really wanted to be friends\nwith Rilla again. Rilla's whole-hearted, ungrudging adoration had been\nvery sweet incense to her. And Ingleside was a very charming house to\nvisit, especially when a handsome college student like Walter was home.\nShe stopped looking at Rilla's feet.\n\n\"Rilla, darling, don't be so abrupt. I really want to help you, if I\ncan manage it. Just sit down and let's talk it over.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, but I can't. I have to be home soon--Jims has to be settled\nfor the night, you know.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes--the baby you are bringing up by the book. It's perfectly\nsweet of you to do it when you hate children so. How cross you were\njust because I kissed him! But we'll forget all that and be chums\nagain, won't we? Now, about the concert--I dare say I can run into town\non the morning train after my dress, and out again on the afternoon one\nin plenty of time for the concert, if you'll ask Miss Oliver to play\nfor me. I couldn't--she's so dreadfully haughty and supercilious that\nshe simply paralyses poor little me.\"\n\nRilla did not waste time or breath defending Miss Oliver. She coolly\nthanked Irene, who had suddenly become very amiable and gushing, and\ngot away. She was very thankful the interview was over. But she knew\nnow that she and Irene could never be the friends they had been.\nFriendly, yes--but friends, no. Nor did she wish it. All winter she had\nfelt under her other and more serious worries, a little feeling of\nregret for her lost chum. Now it was suddenly gone. Irene was not as\nMrs. Elliott would say, of the race that knew Joseph. Rilla did not say\nor think that she had outgrown Irene. Had the thought occurred to her\nshe would have considered it absurd when she was not yet seventeen and\nIrene was twenty. But it was the truth. Irene was just what she had\nbeen a year ago--just what she would always be. Rilla Blythe's nature\nin that year had changed and matured and deepened. She found herself\nseeing through Irene with a disconcerting clearness--discerning under\nall her superficial sweetness, her pettiness, her vindictiveness, her\ninsincerity, her essential cheapness. Irene had lost for ever her\nfaithful worshipper.\n\nBut not until Rilla had traversed the Upper Glen Road and found herself\nin the moon-dappled solitude of Rainbow Valley did she fully recover\nher composure of spirit. Then she stopped under a tall wild plum that\nwas ghostly white and fair in its misty spring bloom and laughed.\n\n\"There is only one thing of importance just now--and that is that the\nAllies win the war,\" she said aloud. \"Therefore, it follows without\ndispute that the fact that I went to see Irene Howard with odd shoes\nand stockings on is of no importance whatever. Nevertheless, I, Bertha\nMarilla Blythe, swear solemnly with the moon as witness\"--Rilla lifted\nher hand dramatically to the said moon--\"that I will never leave my\nroom again without looking carefully at both my feet.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nTHE VALLEY OF DECISION\n\nSusan kept the flag flying at Ingleside all the next day, in honour of\nItaly's declaration of war.\n\n\"And not before it was time, Mrs. Dr. dear, considering the way things\nhave begun to go on the Russian front. Say what you will, those\nRussians are kittle cattle, the grand duke Nicholas to the contrary\nnotwithstanding. It is a fortunate thing for Italy that she has come in\non the right side, but whether it is as fortunate for the Allies I will\nnot predict until I know more about Italians than I do now. However,\nshe will give that old reprobate of a Francis Joseph something to think\nabout. A pretty Emperor indeed--with one foot in the grave and yet\nplotting wholesale murder\"--and Susan thumped and kneaded her bread\nwith as much vicious energy as she could have expended in punching\nFrancis Joseph himself if he had been so unlucky as to fall into her\nclutches.\n\nWalter had gone to town on the early train, and Nan offered to look\nafter Jims for the day and so set Rilla free. Rilla was wildly busy all\nday, helping to decorate the Glen hall and seeing to a hundred last\nthings. The evening was beautiful, in spite of the fact that Mr. Pryor\nwas reported to have said that he \"hoped it would rain pitch forks\npoints down,\" and to have wantonly kicked Miranda's dog as he said it.\nRilla, rushing home from the hall, dressed hurriedly. Everything had\ngone surprisingly well at the last; Irene was even then downstairs\npractising her songs with Miss Oliver; Rilla was excited and happy,\nforgetful even of the Western front for the moment. It gave her a sense\nof achievement and victory to have brought her efforts of weeks to such\na successful conclusion. She knew that there had not lacked people who\nthought and hinted that Rilla Blythe had not the tact or patience to\nengineer a concert programme. She had shown them! Little snatches of\nsong bubbled up from her lips as she dressed. She thought she was\nlooking very well. Excitement brought a faint, becoming pink into her\nround creamy cheeks, quite drowning out her few freckles, and her hair\ngleamed with red-brown lustre. Should she wear crab-apple blossoms in\nit, or her little fillet of pearls? After some agonised wavering she\ndecided on the crab-apple blossoms and tucked the white waxen cluster\nbehind her left ear. Now for a final look at her feet. Yes, both\nslippers were on. She gave the sleeping Jims a kiss--what a dear little\nwarm, rosy, satin face he had--and hurried down the hill to the hall.\nAlready it was filling--soon it was crowded. Her concert was going to\nbe a brilliant success.\n\nThe first three numbers were successfully over. Rilla was in the little\ndressing-room behind the platform, looking out on the moonlit harbour\nand rehearsing her own recitations. She was alone, the rest of the\nperformers being in the larger room on the other side. Suddenly she\nfelt two soft bare arms slipping round her waist, then Irene Howard\ndropped a light kiss on her cheek.\n\n\"Rilla, you sweet thing, you're looking simply angelic to-night. You\nhave spunk--I thought you would feel so badly over Walter's enlisting\nthat you'd hardly be able to bear up at all, and here you are as cool\nas a cucumber. I wish I had half your nerve.\"\n\nRilla stood perfectly still. She felt no emotion whatever--she felt\nnothing. The world of feeling had just gone blank.\n\n\"Walter--enlisting\"--she heard herself saying--then she heard Irene's\naffected little laugh.\n\n\"Why, didn't you know? I thought you did of course, or I wouldn't have\nmentioned it. I am always putting my foot in it, aren't I? Yes, that is\nwhat he went to town for to-day--he told me coming out on the train\nto-night, I was the first person he told. He isn't in khaki yet--they\nwere out of uniforms--but he will be in a day or two. I always said\nWalter had as much pluck as anybody. I assure you I felt proud of him,\nRilla, when he told me what he'd done. Oh, there's an end of Rick\nMacAllister's reading. I must fly. I promised I'd play for the next\nchorus--Alice Clow has such a headache.\"\n\nShe was gone--oh, thank God, she was gone! Rilla was alone again,\nstaring out at the unchanged, dream-like beauty of moonlit Four Winds.\nFeeling was coming back to her--a pang of agony so acute as to be\nalmost physical seemed to rend her apart.\n\n\"I cannot bear it,\" she said. And then came the awful thought that\nperhaps she could bear it and that there might be years of this hideous\nsuffering before her.\n\nShe must get away--she must rush home--she must be alone. She could not\ngo out there and play for drills and give readings and take part in\ndialogues now. It would spoil half the concert; but that did not\nmatter--nothing mattered. Was this she, Rilla Blythe--this tortured\nthing, who had been quite happy a few minutes ago? Outside, a quartette\nwas singing \"We'll never let the old flag fall\"--the music seemed to be\ncoming from some remote distance. Why couldn't she cry, as she had\ncried when Jem told them he must go? If she could cry perhaps this\nhorrible something that seemed to have seized on her very life might\nlet go. But no tears came! Where were her scarf and coat? She must get\naway and hide herself like an animal hurt to the death.\n\nWas it a coward's part to run away like this? The question came to her\nsuddenly as if someone else had asked it. She thought of the shambles\nof the Flanders front--she thought of her brother and her playmate\nhelping to hold those fire-swept trenches. What would they think of her\nif she shirked her little duty here--the humble duty of carrying the\nprogramme through for her Red Cross? But she couldn't stay--she\ncouldn't--yet what was it mother had said when Jem went: \"When our\nwomen fail in courage shall our men be fearless still?\" But this--this\nwas unbearable.\n\nStill, she stopped half-way to the door and went back to the window.\nIrene was singing now; her beautiful voice--the only real thing about\nher--soared clear and sweet through the building. Rilla knew that the\ngirls' Fairy Drill came next. Could she go out there and play for it?\nHer head was aching now--her throat was burning. Oh, why had Irene told\nher just then, when telling could do no good? Irene had been very\ncruel. Rilla remembered now that more than once that day she had caught\nher mother looking at her with an odd expression. She had been too busy\nto wonder what it meant. She understood now. Mother had known why\nWalter went to town but wouldn't tell her until the concert was over.\nWhat spirit and endurance mother had!\n\n\"I must stay here and see things through,\" said Rilla, clasping her\ncold hands together.\n\nThe rest of the evening always seemed like a fevered dream to her. Her\nbody was crowded by people but her soul was alone in a torture-chamber\nof its own. Yet she played steadily for the drills and gave her\nreadings without faltering. She even put on a grotesque old Irish\nwoman's costume and acted the part in the dialogue which Miranda Pryor\nhad not taken. But she did not give her \"brogue\" the inimitable twist\nshe had given it in the practices, and her readings lacked their usual\nfire and appeal. As she stood before the audience she saw one face\nonly--that of the handsome, dark-haired lad sitting beside her\nmother--and she saw that same face in the trenches--saw it lying cold\nand dead under the stars--saw it pining in prison--saw the light of its\neyes blotted out--saw a hundred horrible things as she stood there on\nthe beflagged platform of the Glen hall with her own face whiter than\nthe milky crab-blossoms in her hair. Between her numbers she walked\nrestlessly up and down the little dressing-room. Would the concert\nnever end!\n\nIt ended at last. Olive Kirk rushed up and told her exultantly that\nthey had made a hundred dollars. \"That's good,\" Rilla said\nmechanically. Then she was away from them all--oh, thank God, she was\naway from them all--Walter was waiting for her at the door. He put his\narm through hers silently and they went together down the moonlit road.\nThe frogs were singing in the marshes, the dim, ensilvered fields of\nhome lay all around them. The spring night was lovely and appealing.\nRilla felt that its beauty was an insult to her pain. She would hate\nmoonlight for ever.\n\n\"You know?\" said Walter.\n\n\"Yes. Irene told me,\" answered Rilla chokingly.\n\n\"We didn't want you to know till the evening was over. I knew when you\ncame out for the drill that you had heard. Little sister, I had to do\nit. I couldn't live any longer on such terms with myself as I have been\nsince the Lusitania was sunk. When I pictured those dead women and\nchildren floating about in that pitiless, ice-cold water--well, at\nfirst I just felt a sort of nausea with life. I wanted to get out of\nthe world where such a thing could happen--shake its accursed dust from\nmy feet for ever. Then I knew I had to go.\"\n\n\"There are--plenty--without you.\"\n\n\"That isn't the point, Rilla-my-Rilla. I'm going for my own sake--to\nsave my soul alive. It will shrink to something small and mean and\nlifeless if I don't go. That would be worse than blindness or\nmutilation or any of the things I've feared.\"\n\n\"You may--be--killed,\" Rilla hated herself for saying it--she knew it\nwas a weak and cowardly thing to say--but she had rather gone to pieces\nafter the tension of the evening.\n\n \"'Comes he slow or comes he fast\n It is but death who comes at last.'\"\n\nquoted Walter. \"It's not death I fear--I told you that long ago. One\ncan pay too high a price for mere life, little sister. There's so much\nhideousness in this war--I've got to go and help wipe it out of the\nworld. I'm going to fight for the beauty of life, Rilla-my-Rilla--that\nis my duty. There may be a higher duty, perhaps--but that is mine. I\nowe life and Canada that, and I've got to pay it. Rilla, tonight for\nthe first time since Jem left I've got back my self-respect. I could\nwrite poetry,\" Walter laughed. \"I've never been able to write a line\nsince last August. Tonight I'm full of it. Little sister, be brave--you\nwere so plucky when Jem went.\"\n\n\"This--is--different,\" Rilla had to stop after every word to fight down\na wild outburst of sobs. \"I loved--Jem--of course--but--when--he\nwent--away--we thought--the war--would soon--be over--and you\nare--everything to me, Walter.\"\n\n\"You must be brave to help me, Rilla-my-Rilla. I'm exalted\ntonight--drunk with the excitement of victory over myself--but there\nwill be other times when it won't be like this--I'll need your help\nthen.\"\n\n\"When--do--you--go?\" She must know the worst at once.\n\n\"Not for a week--then we go to Kingsport for training. I suppose we'll\ngo overseas about the middle of July--we don't know.\"\n\nOne week--only one week more with Walter! The eyes of youth did not see\nhow she was to go on living.\n\nWhen they turned in at the Ingleside gate Walter stopped in the shadows\nof the old pines and drew Rilla close to him.\n\n\"Rilla-my-Rilla, there were girls as sweet and pure as you in Belgium\nand Flanders. You--even you--know what their fate was. We must make it\nimpossible for such things to happen again while the world lasts.\nYou'll help me, won't you?\"\n\n\"I'll try, Walter,\" she said. \"Oh, I will try.\"\n\nAs she clung to him with her face pressed against his shoulder she knew\nthat it had to be. She accepted the fact then and there. He must\ngo--her beautiful Walter with his beautiful soul and dreams and ideals.\nAnd she had known all along that it would come sooner or later. She had\nseen it coming to her--coming--coming--as one sees the shadow of a\ncloud drawing near over a sunny field, swiftly and inescapably. Amid\nall her pain she was conscious of an odd feeling of relief in some\nhidden part of her soul, where a little dull, unacknowledged soreness\nhad been lurking all winter. No one--no one could ever call Walter a\nslacker now.\n\nRilla did not sleep that night. Perhaps no one at Ingleside did except\nJims. The body grows slowly and steadily, but the soul grows by leaps\nand bounds. It may come to its full stature in an hour. From that night\nRilla Blythe's soul was the soul of a woman in its capacity for\nsuffering, for strength, for endurance.\n\nWhen the bitter dawn came she rose and went to her window. Below her\nwas a big apple-tree, a great swelling cone of rosy blossom. Walter had\nplanted it years ago when he was a little boy. Beyond Rainbow Valley\nthere was a cloudy shore of morning with little ripples of sunrise\nbreaking over it. The far, cold beauty of a lingering star shone above\nit. Why, in this world of springtime loveliness, must hearts break?\n\nRilla felt arms go about her lovingly, protectingly. It was\nmother--pale, large-eyed mother.\n\n\"Oh, mother, how can you bear it?\" she cried wildly. \"Rilla, dear, I've\nknown for several days that Walter meant to go. I've had time to--to\nrebel and grow reconciled. We must give him up. There is a Call greater\nand more insistent than the call of our love--he has listened to it. We\nmust not add to the bitterness of his sacrifice.\"\n\n\"Our sacrifice is greater than his,\" cried Rilla passionately. \"Our\nboys give only themselves. We give them.\"\n\nBefore Mrs. Blythe could reply Susan stuck her head in at the door,\nnever troubling over such frills of etiquette as knocking. Her eyes\nwere suspiciously red but all she said was,\n\n\"Will I bring up your breakfast, Mrs. Dr. dear.\"\n\n\"No, no, Susan. We will all be down presently. Do you know--that Walter\nhas joined up.\"\n\n\"Yes, Mrs. Dr. dear. The doctor told me last night. I suppose the\nAlmighty has His own reasons for allowing such things. We must submit\nand endeavour to look on the bright side. It may cure him of being a\npoet, at least\"--Susan still persisted in thinking that poets and\ntramps were tarred with the same brush--\"and that would be something.\nBut thank God,\" she muttered in a lower tone, \"that Shirley is not old\nenough to go.\"\n\n\"Isn't that the same thing as thanking Him that some other woman's son\nhas to go in Shirley's place?\" asked the doctor, pausing on the\nthreshold.\n\n\"No, it is not, doctor dear,\" said Susan defiantly, as she picked up\nJims, who was opening his big dark eyes and stretching up his dimpled\npaws. \"Do not you put words in my mouth that I would never dream of\nuttering. I am a plain woman and cannot argue with you, but I do not\nthank God that anybody has to go. I only know that it seems they do\nhave to go, unless we all want to be Kaiserised--for I can assure you\nthat the Monroe doctrine, whatever it is, is nothing to tie to, with\nWoodrow Wilson behind it. The Huns, Dr. dear, will never be brought to\nbook by notes. And now,\" concluded Susan, tucking Jims in the crook of\nher gaunt arms and marching downstairs, \"having cried my cry and said\nmy say I shall take a brace, and if I cannot look pleasant I will look\nas pleasant as I can.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nUNTIL THE DAY BREAK\n\n\"The Germans have recaptured Premysl,\" said Susan despairingly, looking\nup from her newspaper, \"and now I suppose we will have to begin calling\nit by that uncivilised name again. Cousin Sophia was in when the mail\ncame and when she heard the news she hove a sigh up from the depths of\nher stomach, Mrs. Dr. dear, and said, 'Ah yes, and they will get\nPetrograd next I have no doubt.' I said to her, 'My knowledge of\ngeography is not so profound as I wish it was but I have an idea that\nit is quite a walk from Premysl to Petrograd.' Cousin Sophia sighed\nagain and said, 'The Grand Duke Nicholas is not the man I took him to\nbe.' 'Do not let him know that,' said I. 'It might hurt his feelings\nand he has likely enough to worry him as it is. But you cannot cheer\nCousin Sophia up, no matter how sarcastic you are, Mrs. Dr. dear. She\nsighed for the third time and groaned out, 'But the Russians are\nretreating fast,' and I said, 'Well, what of it? They have plenty of\nroom for retreating, have they not?' But all the same, Mrs. Dr. dear,\nthough I would never admit it to Cousin Sophia, I do not like the\nsituation on the eastern front.\"\n\nNobody else liked it either; but all summer the Russian retreat went\non--a long-drawn-out agony.\n\n\"I wonder if I shall ever again be able to await the coming of the mail\nwith feelings of composure--never to speak of pleasure,\" said Gertrude\nOliver. \"The thought that haunts me night and day is--will the Germans\nsmash Russia completely and then hurl their eastern army, flushed with\nvictory, against the western front?\"\n\n\"They will not, Miss Oliver dear,\" said Susan, assuming the role of\nprophetess.\n\n\"In the first place, the Almighty will not allow it, in the second,\nGrand Duke Nicholas, though he may have been a disappointment to us in\nsome respects, knows how to run away decently and in order, and that is\na very useful knowledge when Germans are chasing you. Norman Douglas\ndeclares he is just luring them on and killing ten of them to one he\nloses. But I am of the opinion he cannot help himself and is just doing\nthe best he can under the circumstances, the same as the rest of us. So\ndo not go so far afield to borrow trouble, Miss Oliver dear, when there\nis plenty of it already camping on our very doorstep.\"\n\nWalter had gone to Kingsport the first of June. Nan, Di and Faith had\ngone also to do Red Cross work in their vacation. In mid-July Walter\ncame home for a week's leave before going overseas. Rilla had lived\nthrough the days of his absence on the hope of that week, and now that\nit had come she drank every minute of it thirstily, hating even the\nhours she had to spend in sleep, they seemed such a waste of precious\nmoments. In spite of its sadness, it was a beautiful week, full of\npoignant, unforgettable hours, when she and Walter had long walks and\ntalks and silences together. He was all her own and she knew that he\nfound strength and comfort in her sympathy and understanding. It was\nvery wonderful to know she meant so much to him--the knowledge helped\nher through moments that would otherwise have been unendurable, and\ngave her power to smile--and even to laugh a little. When Walter had\ngone she might indulge in the comfort of tears, but not while he was\nhere. She would not even let herself cry at night, lest her eyes should\nbetray her to him in the morning.\n\nOn his last evening at home they went together to Rainbow Valley and\nsat down on the bank of the brook, under the White Lady, where the gay\nrevels of olden days had been held in the cloudless years. Rainbow\nValley was roofed over with a sunset of unusual splendour that night; a\nwonderful grey dusk just touched with starlight followed it; and then\ncame moonshine, hinting, hiding, revealing, lighting up little dells\nand hollows here, leaving others in dark, velvet shadow.\n\n\"When I am 'somewhere in France,'\" said Walter, looking around him with\neager eyes on all the beauty his soul loved, \"I shall remember these\nstill, dewy, moon-drenched places. The balsam of the fir-trees; the\npeace of those white pools of moonshine; the 'strength of the\nhills'--what a beautiful old Biblical phrase that is. Rilla! Look at\nthose old hills around us--the hills we looked up at as children,\nwondering what lay for us in the great world beyond them. How calm and\nstrong they are--how patient and changeless--like the heart of a good\nwoman. Rilla-my-Rilla, do you know what you have been to me the past\nyear? I want to tell you before I go. I could not have lived through it\nif it had not been for you, little loving, believing heart.\"\n\nRilla dared not try to speak. She slipped her hand into Walter's and\npressed it hard.\n\n\"And when I'm over there, Rilla, in that hell upon earth which men who\nhave forgotten God have made, it will be the thought of you that will\nhelp me most. I know you'll be as plucky and patient as you have shown\nyourself to be this past year--I'm not afraid for you. I know that no\nmatter what happens, you'll be Rilla-my-Rilla--no matter what happens.\"\n\nRilla repressed tear and sigh, but she could not repress a little\nshiver, and Walter knew that he had said enough. After a moment of\nsilence, in which each made an unworded promise to each other, he said,\n\"Now we won't be sober any more. We'll look beyond the years--to the\ntime when the war will be over and Jem and Jerry and I will come\nmarching home and we'll all be happy again.\"\n\n\"We won't be--happy--in the same way,\" said Rilla.\n\n\"No, not in the same way. Nobody whom this war has touched will ever be\nhappy again in quite the same way. But it will be a better happiness, I\nthink, little sister--a happiness we've earned. We were very happy\nbefore the war, weren't we? With a home like Ingleside, and a father\nand mother like ours we couldn't help being happy. But that happiness\nwas a gift from life and love; it wasn't really ours--life could take\nit back at any time. It can never take away the happiness we win for\nourselves in the way of duty. I've realised that since I went into\nkhaki. In spite of my occasional funks, when I fall to living over\nthings beforehand, I've been happy since that night in May. Rilla, be\nawfully good to mother while I'm away. It must be a horrible thing to\nbe a mother in this war--the mothers and sisters and wives and\nsweethearts have the hardest times. Rilla, you beautiful little thing,\nare you anybody's sweetheart? If you are, tell me before I go.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Rilla. Then, impelled by a wish to be absolutely frank with\nWalter in this talk that might be the last they would ever have, she\nadded, blushing wildly in the moonlight, \"but if--Kenneth Ford--wanted\nme to be--\"\n\n\"I see,\" said Walter. \"And Ken's in khaki, too. Poor little girlie,\nit's a bit hard for you all round. Well, I'm not leaving any girl to\nbreak her heart about me--thank God for that.\"\n\nRilla glanced up at the Manse on the hill. She could see a light in Una\nMeredith's window. She felt tempted to say something--then she knew she\nmust not. It was not her secret: and, anyway, she did not know--she\nonly suspected.\n\nWalter looked about him lingeringly and lovingly. This spot had always\nbeen so dear to him. What fun they all had had here lang syne. Phantoms\nof memory seemed to pace the dappled paths and peep merrily through the\nswinging boughs--Jem and Jerry, bare-legged, sunburned schoolboys,\nfishing in the brook and frying trout over the old stone fireplace; Nan\nand Di and Faith, in their dimpled, fresh-eyed childish beauty; Una the\nsweet and shy, Carl, poring over ants and bugs, little slangy,\nsharp-tongued, good-hearted Mary Vance--the old Walter that had been\nhimself lying on the grass reading poetry or wandering through palaces\nof fancy. They were all there around him--he could see them almost as\nplainly as he saw Rilla--as plainly as he had once seen the Pied Piper\npiping down the valley in a vanished twilight. And they said to him,\nthose gay little ghosts of other days, \"We were the children of\nyesterday, Walter--fight a good fight for the children of to-day and\nto-morrow.\"\n\n\"Where are you, Walter,\" cried Rilla, laughing a little. \"Come\nback--come back.\"\n\nWalter came back with a long breath. He stood up and looked about him\nat the beautiful valley of moonlight, as if to impress on his mind and\nheart every charm it possessed--the great dark plumes of the firs\nagainst the silvery sky, the stately White Lady, the old magic of the\ndancing brook, the faithful Tree Lovers, the beckoning, tricksy paths.\n\n\"I shall see it so in my dreams,\" he said, as he turned away.\n\nThey went back to Ingleside. Mr. and Mrs. Meredith were there, with\nGertrude Oliver, who had come from Lowbridge to say good-bye. Everybody\nwas quite cheerful and bright, but nobody said much about the war being\nsoon over, as they had said when Jem went away. They did not talk about\nthe war at all--and they thought of nothing else. At last they gathered\naround the piano and sang the grand old hymn:\n\n \"Oh God, our help in ages past\n Our hope for years to come.\n Our shelter from the stormy blast\n And our eternal home.\"\n\n\"We all come back to God in these days of soul-sifting,\" said Gertrude\nto John Meredith. \"There have been many days in the past when I didn't\nbelieve in God--not as God--only as the impersonal Great First Cause of\nthe scientists. I believe in Him now--I have to--there's nothing else\nto fall back on but God--humbly, starkly, unconditionally.\"\n\n\"'Our help in ages past'--'the same yesterday, to-day and for ever,'\"\nsaid the minister gently. \"When we forget God--He remembers us.\"\n\nThere was no crowd at the Glen Station the next morning to see Walter\noff. It was becoming a commonplace for a khaki clad boy to board that\nearly morning train after his last leave. Besides his own, only the\nManse folk were there, and Mary Vance. Mary had sent her Miller off the\nweek before, with a determined grin, and now considered herself\nentitled to give expert opinion on how such partings should be\nconducted.\n\n\"The main thing is to smile and act as if nothing was happening,\" she\ninformed the Ingleside group. \"The boys all hate the sob act like\npoison. Miller told me I wasn't to come near the station if I couldn't\nkeep from bawling. So I got through with my crying beforehand, and at\nthe last I said to him, 'Good luck, Miller, and if you come back you'll\nfind I haven't changed any, and if you don't come back I'll always be\nproud you went, and in any case don't fall in love with a French girl.'\nMiller swore he wouldn't, but you never can tell about those\nfascinating foreign hussies. Anyhow, the last sight he had of me I was\nsmiling to my limit. Gee, all the rest of the day my face felt as if it\nhad been starched and ironed into a smile.\"\n\nIn spite of Mary's advice and example Mrs. Blythe, who had sent Jem off\nwith a smile, could not quite manage one for Walter. But at least no\none cried. Dog Monday came out of his lair in the shipping-shed and sat\ndown close to Walter, thumping his tail vigorously on the boards of the\nplatform whenever Walter spoke to him, and looking up with confident\neyes, as if to say, \"I know you'll find Jem and bring him back to me.\"\n\n\"So long, old fellow,\" said Carl Meredith cheerfully, when the\ngood-byes had to be said. \"Tell them over there to keep their spirits\nup--I am coming along presently.\"\n\n\"Me too,\" said Shirley laconically, proffering a brown paw. Susan heard\nhim and her face turned very grey.\n\nUna shook hands quietly, looking at him with wistful, sorrowful,\ndark-blue eyes. But then Una's eyes had always been wistful. Walter\nbent his handsome black head in its khaki cap and kissed her with the\nwarm, comradely kiss of a brother. He had never kissed her before, and\nfor a fleeting moment Una's face betrayed her, if anyone had noticed.\nBut nobody did; the conductor was shouting \"all aboard\"; everybody was\ntrying to look very cheerful. Walter turned to Rilla; she held his\nhands and looked up at him. She would not see him again until the day\nbroke and the shadows vanished--and she knew not if that daybreak would\nbe on this side of the grave or beyond it.\n\n\"Good-bye,\" she said.\n\nOn her lips it lost all the bitterness it had won through the ages of\nparting and bore instead all the sweetness of the old loves of all the\nwomen who had ever loved and prayed for the beloved.\n\n\"Write me often and bring Jims up faithfully, according to the gospel\nof Morgan,\" Walter said lightly, having said all his serious things the\nnight before in Rainbow Valley. But at the last moment he took her face\nbetween his hands and looked deep into her gallant eyes. \"God bless\nyou, Rilla-my-Rilla,\" he said softly and tenderly. After all it was not\na hard thing to fight for a land that bore daughters like this.\n\nHe stood on the rear platform and waved to them as the train pulled\nout. Rilla was standing by herself, but Una Meredith came to her and\nthe two girls who loved him most stood together and held each other's\ncold hands as the train rounded the curve of the wooded hill.\n\nRilla spent an hour in Rainbow Valley that morning about which she\nnever said a word to anyone; she did not even write in her diary about\nit; when it was over she went home and made rompers for Jims. In the\nevening she went to a Junior Red Cross committee meeting and was\nseverely businesslike.\n\n\"You would never suppose,\" said Irene Howard to Olive Kirk afterwards,\n\"that Walter had left for the front only this morning. But some people\nreally have no depth of feeling. I often wish I could take things as\nlightly as Rilla Blythe.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nREALISM AND ROMANCE\n\n\"Warsaw has fallen,\" said Dr. Blythe with a resigned air, as he brought\nthe mail in one warm August day.\n\nGertrude and Mrs. Blythe looked dismally at each other, and Rilla, who\nwas feeding Jims a Morganized diet from a carefully sterilized spoon,\nlaid the said spoon down on his tray, utterly regardless of germs, and\nsaid, \"Oh, dear me,\" in as tragic a tone as if the news had come as a\nthunderbolt instead of being a foregone conclusion from the preceding\nweek's dispatches. They had thought they were quite resigned to\nWarsaw's fall but now they knew they had, as always, hoped against hope.\n\n\"Now, let us take a brace,\" said Susan. \"It is not the terrible thing\nwe have been thinking. I read a dispatch three columns long in the\nMontreal Herald yesterday that proved that Warsaw was not important\nfrom a military point of view at all. So let us take the military point\nof view, doctor dear.\"\n\n\"I read that dispatch, too, and it has encouraged me immensely,\" said\nGertrude. \"I knew then and I know now that it was a lie from beginning\nto end. But I am in that state of mind where even a lie is a comfort,\nproviding it is a cheerful lie.\"\n\n\"In that case, Miss Oliver dear, the German official reports ought to\nbe all you need,\" said Susan sarcastically. \"I never read them now\nbecause they make me so mad I cannot put my thoughts properly on my\nwork after a dose of them. Even this news about Warsaw has taken the\nedge off my afternoon's plans. Misfortunes never come singly. I spoiled\nmy baking of bread today--and now Warsaw has fallen--and here is little\nKitchener bent on choking himself to death.\"\n\nJims was evidently trying to swallow his spoon, germs and all. Rilla\nrescued him mechanically and was about to resume the operation of\nfeeding him when a casual remark of her father's sent such a shock and\nthrill over her that for the second time she dropped that doomed spoon.\n\n\"Kenneth Ford is down at Martin West's over-harbour,\" the doctor was\nsaying. \"His regiment was on its way to the front but was held up in\nKingsport for some reason, and Ken got leave of absence to come over to\nthe Island.\"\n\n\"I hope he will come up to see us,\" exclaimed Mrs. Blythe.\n\n\"He only has a day or two off, I believe,\" said the doctor absently.\n\nNobody noticed Rilla's flushed face and trembling hands. Even the most\nthoughtful and watchful of parents do not see everything that goes on\nunder their very noses. Rilla made a third attempt to give the\nlong-suffering Jims his dinner, but all she could think of was the\nquestion--Would Ken come to see her before he went away? She had not\nheard from him for a long while. Had he forgotten her completely? If he\ndid not come she would know that he had. Perhaps there was even--some\nother girl back there in Toronto. Of course there was. She was a little\nfool to be thinking about him at all. She would not think about him. If\nhe came, well and good. It would only be courteous of him to make a\nfarewell call at Ingleside where he had often been a guest. If he did\nnot come--well and good, too. It did not matter very much. Nobody was\ngoing to fret. That was all settled comfortably--she was quite\nindifferent--but meanwhile Jims was being fed with a haste and\nrecklessness that would have filled the soul of Morgan with horror.\nJims himself didn't like it, being a methodical baby, accustomed to\nswallowing spoonfuls with a decent interval for breath between each. He\nprotested, but his protests availed him nothing. Rilla, as far as the\ncare and feeding of infants was concerned, was utterly demoralized.\n\nThen the telephone-bell rang. There was nothing unusual about the\ntelephone ringing. It rang on an average every ten minutes at\nIngleside. But Rilla dropped Jims' spoon again--on the carpet this\ntime--and flew to the 'phone as if life depended on her getting there\nbefore anybody else. Jims, his patience exhausted, lifted up his voice\nand wept.\n\n\"Hello, is this Ingleside?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"That you, Rilla?\" \"Yeth--yeth.\" Oh, why couldn't Jims stop howling for\njust one little minute? Why didn't somebody come in and choke him?\n\n\"Know who's speaking?\"\n\nOh, didn't she know! Wouldn't she know that voice anywhere--at any time?\n\n\"It's Ken--isn't it?\"\n\n\"Sure thing. I'm here for a look-in. Can I come up to Ingleside tonight\nand see you?\"\n\n\"Of courthe.\"\n\nHad he used \"you\" in the singular or plural sense? Presently she would\nwring Jims' neck--oh, what was Ken saying?\n\n\"See here, Rilla, can you arrange that there won't be more than a few\ndozen people round? Understand? I can't make my meaning clearer over\nthis bally rural line. There are a dozen receivers down.\"\n\nDid she understand! Yes, she understood.\n\n\"I'll try,\" she said.\n\n\"I'll be up about eight then. By-by.\"\n\nRilla hung up the 'phone and flew to Jims. But she did not wring that\ninjured infant's neck. Instead she snatched him bodily out of his\nchair, crushed him against her face, kissed him rapturously on his\nmilky mouth, and danced wildly around the room with him in her arms.\nAfter this Jims was relieved to find that she returned to sanity, gave\nhim the rest of his dinner properly, and tucked him away for his\nafternoon nap with the little lullaby he loved best of all. She sewed\nat Red Cross shirts for the rest of the afternoon and built a crystal\ncastle of dreams, all a-quiver with rainbows. Ken wanted to see her--to\nsee her alone. That could be easily managed. Shirley wouldn't bother\nthem, father and mother were going to the Manse, Miss Oliver never\nplayed gooseberry, and Jims always slept the clock round from seven to\nseven. She would entertain Ken on the veranda--it would be\nmoonlight--she would wear her white georgette dress and do her hair\nup--yes, she would--at least in a low knot at the nape of her neck.\nMother couldn't object to that, surely. Oh, how wonderful and romantic\nit would be! Would Ken say anything--he must mean to say something or\nwhy should he be so particular about seeing her alone? What if it\nrained--Susan had been complaining about Mr. Hyde that morning! What if\nsome officious Junior Red called to discuss Belgians and shirts? Or,\nworst of all, what if Fred Arnold dropped in? He did occasionally.\n\nThe evening came at last and was all that could be desired in an\nevening. The doctor and his wife went to the Manse, Shirley and Miss\nOliver went they alone knew where, Susan went to the store for\nhousehold supplies, and Jims went to Dreamland. Rilla put on her\ngeorgette gown, knotted up her hair and bound a little double string of\npearls around it. Then she tucked a cluster of pale pink baby roses at\nher belt. Would Ken ask her for a rose for a keepsake? She knew that\nJem had carried to the trenches in Flanders a faded rose that Faith\nMeredith had kissed and given him the night before he left.\n\nRilla looked very sweet when she met Ken in the mingled moonlight and\nvine shadows of the big veranda. The hand she gave him was cold and she\nwas so desperately anxious not to lisp that her greeting was prim and\nprecise. How handsome and tall Kenneth looked in his lieutenant's\nuniform! It made him seem older, too--so much so that Rilla felt rather\nfoolish. Hadn't it been the height of absurdity for her to suppose that\nthis splendid young officer had anything special to say to her, little\nRilla Blythe of Glen St. Mary? Likely she hadn't understood him after\nall--he had only meant that he didn't want a mob of folks around making\na fuss over him and trying to lionize him, as they had probably done\nover-harbour. Yes, of course, that was all he meant--and she, little\nidiot, had gone and vainly imagined that he didn't want anybody but\nher. And he would think she had manoeuvred everybody away so that they\ncould be alone together, and he would laugh to himself at her.\n\n\"This is better luck than I hoped for,\" said Ken, leaning back in his\nchair and looking at her with very unconcealed admiration in his\neloquent eyes. \"I was sure someone would be hanging about and it was\njust you I wanted to see, Rilla-my-Rilla.\"\n\nRilla's dream castle flashed into the landscape again. This was\nunmistakable enough certainly--not much doubt as to his meaning here.\n\n\"There aren't--so many of us--to poke around as there used to be,\" she\nsaid softly.\n\n\"No, that's so,\" said Ken gently. \"Jem and Walter and the girls\naway--it makes a big blank, doesn't it? But--\" he leaned forward until\nhis dark curls almost brushed her hair--\"doesn't Fred Arnold try to\nfill the blank occasionally. I've been told so.\"\n\nAt this moment, before Rilla could make any reply, Jims began to cry at\nthe top of his voice in the room whose open window was just above\nthem--Jims, who hardly ever cried in the evening. Moreover, he was\ncrying, as Rilla knew from experience, with a vim and energy that\nbetokened that he had been already whimpering softly unheard for some\ntime and was thoroughly exasperated. When Jims started in crying like\nthat he made a thorough job of it. Rilla knew that there was no use to\nsit still and pretend to ignore him. He wouldn't stop; and conversation\nof any kind was out of the question when such shrieks and howls were\nfloating over your head. Besides, she was afraid Kenneth would think\nshe was utterly unfeeling if she sat still and let a baby cry like\nthat. He was not likely acquainted with Morgan's invaluable volume.\n\nShe got up. \"Jims has had a nightmare, I think. He sometimes has one\nand he is always badly frightened by it. Excuse me for a moment.\"\n\nRilla flew upstairs, wishing quite frankly that soup tureens had never\nbeen invented. But when Jims, at sight of her, lifted his little arms\nentreatingly and swallowed several sobs, with tears rolling down his\ncheeks, resentment went out of her heart. After all, the poor darling\nwas frightened. She picked him up gently and rocked him soothingly\nuntil his sobs ceased and his eyes closed. Then she essayed to lay him\ndown in his crib. Jims opened his eyes and shrieked a protest. This\nperformance was repeated twice. Rilla grew desperate. She couldn't\nleave Ken down there alone any longer--she had been away nearly half an\nhour already. With a resigned air she marched downstairs, carrying\nJims, and sat down on the veranda. It was, no doubt, a ridiculous thing\nto sit and cuddle a contrary war-baby when your best young man was\nmaking his farewell call, but there was nothing else to be done.\n\nJims was supremely happy. He kicked his little pink-soled feet\nrapturously out under his white nighty and gave one of his rare laughs.\nHe was beginning to be a very pretty baby; his golden hair curled in\nsilken ringlets all over his little round head and his eyes were\nbeautiful.\n\n\"He's a decorative kiddy all right, isn't he?\" said Ken.\n\n\"His looks are very well,\" said Rilla, bitterly, as if to imply that\nthey were much the best of him. Jims, being an astute infant, sensed\ntrouble in the atmosphere and realized that it was up to him to clear\nit away. He turned his face up to Rilla, smiled adorably and said,\nclearly and beguilingly, \"Will--Will.\"\n\nIt was the very first time he had spoken a word or tried to speak.\nRilla was so delighted that she forgot her grudge against him. She\nforgave him with a hug and kiss. Jims, understanding that he was\nrestored to favour, cuddled down against her just where a gleam of\nlight from the lamp in the living-room struck across his hair and\nturned it into a halo of gold against her breast.\n\nKenneth sat very still and silent, looking at Rilla--at the delicate,\ngirlish silhouette of her, her long lashes, her dented lip, her\nadorable chin. In the dim moonlight, as she sat with her head bent a\nlittle over Jims, the lamplight glinting on her pearls until they\nglistened like a slender nimbus, he thought she looked exactly like the\nMadonna that hung over his mother's desk at home. He carried that\npicture of her in his heart to the horror of the battlefields of\nFrance. He had had a strong fancy for Rilla Blythe ever since the night\nof the Four Winds dance; but it was when he saw her there, with little\nJims in her arms, that he loved her and realized it. And all the while,\npoor Rilla was sitting, disappointed and humiliated, feeling that her\nlast evening with Ken was spoiled and wondering why things always had\nto go so contrarily outside of books. She felt too absurd to try to\ntalk. Evidently Ken was completely disgusted, too, since he was sitting\nthere in such stony silence.\n\nHope revived momentarily when Jims went so thoroughly asleep that she\nthought it would be safe to lay him down on the couch in the\nliving-room. But when she came out again Susan was sitting on the\nveranda, loosening her bonnet strings with the air of one who meant to\nstay where she was for some time.\n\n\"Have you got your baby to sleep?\" she asked kindly.\n\nYour baby! Really, Susan might have more tact.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Rilla shortly.\n\nSusan laid her parcels on the reed table, as one determined to do her\nduty. She was very tired but she must help Rilla out. Here was Kenneth\nFord who had come to call on the family and they were all unfortunately\nout, and \"the poor child\" had had to entertain him alone. But Susan had\ncome to her rescue--Susan would do her part no matter how tired she was.\n\n\"Dear me, how you have grown up,\" she said, looking at Ken's six feet\nof khaki uniform without the least awe. Susan had grown used to khaki\nnow, and at sixty-four even a lieutenant's uniform is just clothes and\nnothing else. \"It is an amazing thing how fast children do grow up.\nRilla here, now, is almost fifteen.\"\n\n\"I'm going on seventeen, Susan,\" cried Rilla almost passionately. She\nwas a whole month past sixteen. It was intolerable of Susan.\n\n\"It seems just the other day that you were all babies,\" said Susan,\nignoring Rilla's protest. \"You were really the prettiest baby I ever\nsaw, Ken, though your mother had an awful time trying to cure you of\nsucking your thumb. Do you remember the day I spanked you?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Ken.\n\n\"Oh well, I suppose you would be too young--you were only about four\nand you were here with your mother and you insisted on teasing Nan\nuntil she cried. I had tried several ways of stopping you but none\navailed, and I saw that a spanking was the only thing that would serve.\nSo I picked you up and laid you across my knee and lambasted you well.\nYou howled at the top of your voice but you left Nan alone after that.\"\n\nRilla was writhing. Hadn't Susan any realization that she was\naddressing an officer of the Canadian Army? Apparently she had not. Oh,\nwhat would Ken think? \"I suppose you do not remember the time your\nmother spanked you either,\" continued Susan, who seemed to be bent on\nreviving tender reminiscences that evening. \"I shall never, no never,\nforget it. She was up here one night with you when you were about\nthree, and you and Walter were playing out in the kitchen yard with a\nkitten. I had a big puncheon of rainwater by the spout which I was\nreserving for making soap. And you and Walter began quarrelling over\nthe kitten. Walter was at one side of the puncheon standing on a chair,\nholding the kitten, and you were standing on a chair at the other side.\nYou leaned across that puncheon and grabbed the kitten and pulled. You\nwere always a great hand for taking what you wanted without too much\nceremony. Walter held on tight and the poor kitten yelled but you\ndragged Walter and the kitten half over and then you both lost your\nbalance and tumbled into that puncheon, kitten and all. If I had not\nbeen on the spot you would both have been drowned. I flew to the rescue\nand hauled you all three out before much harm was done, and your\nmother, who had seen it all from the upstairs window, came down and\npicked you up, dripping as you were, and gave you a beautiful spanking.\nAh,\" said Susan with a sigh, \"those were happy old days at Ingleside.\"\n\n\"Must have been,\" said Ken. His voice sounded queer and stiff. Rilla\nsupposed he was hopelessly enraged. The truth was he dared not trust\nhis voice lest it betray his frantic desire to laugh.\n\n\"Rilla here, now,\" said Susan, looking affectionately at that unhappy\ndamsel, \"never was much spanked. She was a real well-behaved child for\nthe most part. But her father did spank her once. She got two bottles\nof pills out of his office and dared Alice Clow to see which of them\ncould swallow all the pills first, and if her father had not happened\nin the nick of time those two children would have been corpses by\nnight. As it was, they were both sick enough shortly after. But the\ndoctor spanked Rilla then and there and he made such a thorough job of\nit that she never meddled with anything in his office afterwards. We\nhear a great deal nowadays of something that is called 'moral\npersuasion,' but in my opinion a good spanking and no nagging\nafterwards is a much better thing.\"\n\nRilla wondered viciously whether Susan meant to relate all the family\nspankings. But Susan had finished with the subject and branched off to\nanother cheerful one.\n\n\"I remember little Tod MacAllister over-harbour killed himself that\nvery way, eating up a whole box of fruitatives because he thought they\nwere candy. It was a very sad affair. He was,\" said Susan earnestly,\n\"the very cutest little corpse I ever laid my eyes on. It was very\ncareless of his mother to leave the fruitatives where he could get\nthem, but she was well-known to be a heedless creature. One day she\nfound a nest of five eggs as she was going across the fields to church\nwith a brand new blue silk dress on. So she put them in the pocket of\nher petticoat and when she got to church she forgot all about them and\nsat down on them and her dress was ruined, not to speak of the\npetticoat. Let me see--would not Tod be some relation of yours? Your\ngreat grandmother West was a MacAllister. Her brother Amos was a\nMacDonaldite in religion. I am told he used to take the jerks something\nfearful. But you look more like your great grandfather West than the\nMacAllisters. He died of a paralytic stroke quite early in life.\"\n\n\"Did you see anybody at the store?\" asked Rilla desperately, in the\nfaint hope of directing Susan's conversation into more agreeable\nchannels.\n\n\"Nobody except Mary Vance,\" said Susan, \"and she was stepping round as\nbrisk as the Irishman's flea.\"\n\nWhat terrible similes Susan used! Would Kenneth think she acquired them\nfrom the family!\n\n\"To hear Mary talk about Miller Douglas you would think he was the only\nGlen boy who had enlisted,\" Susan went on. \"But of course she always\ndid brag and she has some good qualities I am willing to admit, though\nI did not think so that time she chased Rilla here through the village\nwith a dried codfish till the poor child fell, heels over head, into\nthe puddle before Carter Flagg's store.\"\n\nRilla went cold all over with wrath and shame. Were there any more\ndisgraceful scenes in her past that Susan could rake up? As for Ken, he\ncould have howled over Susan's speeches, but he would not so insult the\nduenna of his lady, so he sat with a preternaturally solemn face which\nseemed to poor Rilla a haughty and offended one.\n\n\"I paid eleven cents for a bottle of ink tonight,\" complained Susan.\n\"Ink is twice as high as it was last year. Perhaps it is because\nWoodrow Wilson has been writing so many notes. It must cost him\nconsiderable. My cousin Sophia says Woodrow Wilson is not the man she\nexpected him to be--but then no man ever was. Being an old maid, I do\nnot know much about men and have never pretended to, but my cousin\nSophia is very hard on them, although she married two of them, which\nyou might think was a fair share. Albert Crawford's chimney blew down\nin that big gale we had last week, and when Sophia heard the bricks\nclattering on the roof she thought it was a Zeppelin raid and went into\nhysterics. And Mrs. Albert Crawford says that of the two things she\nwould have preferred the Zeppelin raid.\"\n\nRilla sat limply in her chair like one hypnotized. She knew Susan would\nstop talking when she was ready to stop and that no earthly power could\nmake her stop any sooner. As a rule, she was very fond of Susan but\njust now she hated her with a deadly hatred. It was ten o'clock. Ken\nwould soon have to go--the others would soon be home--and she had not\neven had a chance to explain to Ken that Fred Arnold filled no blank in\nher life nor ever could. Her rainbow castle lay in ruins round her.\n\nKenneth got up at last. He realized that Susan was there to stay as\nlong as he did, and it was a three mile walk to Martin West's\nover-harbour. He wondered if Rilla had put Susan up to this, not\nwanting to be left alone with him, lest he say something Fred Arnold's\nsweetheart did not want to hear. Rilla got up, too, and walked silently\nthe length of the veranda with him. They stood there for a moment, Ken\non the lower step. The step was half sunk into the earth and mint grew\nthickly about and over its edge. Often crushed by so many passing feet\nit gave out its essence freely, and the spicy odour hung round them\nlike a soundless, invisible benediction. Ken looked up at Rilla, whose\nhair was shining in the moonlight and whose eyes were pools of\nallurement. All at once he felt sure there was nothing in that gossip\nabout Fred Arnold.\n\n\"Rilla,\" he said in a sudden, intense whisper, \"you are the sweetest\nthing.\"\n\nRilla flushed and looked at Susan. Ken looked, too, and saw that\nSusan's back was turned. He put his arm about Rilla and kissed her. It\nwas the first time Rilla had ever been kissed. She thought perhaps she\nought to resent it but she didn't. Instead, she glanced timidly into\nKenneth's seeking eyes and her glance was a kiss.\n\n\"Rilla-my-Rilla,\" said Ken, \"will you promise that you won't let anyone\nelse kiss you until I come back?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Rilla, trembling and thrilling.\n\nSusan was turning round. Ken loosened his hold and stepped to the walk.\n\n\"Good-bye,\" he said casually. Rilla heard herself saying it just as\ncasually. She stood and watched him down the walk, out of the gate, and\ndown the road. When the fir wood hid him from her sight she suddenly\nsaid \"Oh,\" in a choked way and ran down to the gate, sweet blossomy\nthings catching at her skirts as she ran. Leaning over the gate she saw\nKenneth walking briskly down the road, over the bars of tree shadows\nand moonlight, his tall, erect figure grey in the white radiance. As he\nreached the turn he stopped and looked back and saw her standing amid\nthe tall white lilies by the gate. He waved his hand--she waved\nhers--he was gone around the turn.\n\nRilla stood there for a little while, gazing across the fields of mist\nand silver. She had heard her mother say that she loved turns in\nroads--they were so provocative and alluring. Rilla thought she hated\nthem. She had seen Jem and Jerry vanish from her around a bend in the\nroad--then Walter--and now Ken. Brothers and playmate and\nsweetheart--they were all gone, never, it might be, to return. Yet\nstill the Piper piped and the dance of death went on.\n\nWhen Rilla walked slowly back to the house Susan was still sitting by\nthe veranda table and Susan was sniffing suspiciously.\n\n\"I have been thinking, Rilla dear, of the old days in the House of\nDreams, when Kenneth's mother and father were courting and Jem was a\nlittle baby and you were not born or thought of. It was a very romantic\naffair and she and your mother were such chums. To think I should have\nlived to see her son going to the front. As if she had not had enough\ntrouble in her early life without this coming upon her! But we must\ntake a brace and see it through.\"\n\nAll Rilla's anger against Susan had evaporated. With Ken's kiss still\nburning on her lips, and the wonderful significance of the promise he\nhad asked thrilling heart and soul, she could not be angry with anyone.\nShe put her slim white hand into Susan's brown, work-hardened one and\ngave it a squeeze. Susan was a faithful old dear and would lay down her\nlife for any one of them.\n\n\"You are tired, Rilla dear, and had better go to bed,\" Susan said,\npatting her hand. \"I noticed you were too tired to talk tonight. I am\nglad I came home in time to help you out. It is very tiresome trying to\nentertain young men when you are not accustomed to it.\"\n\nRilla carried Jims upstairs and went to bed, but not before she had sat\nfor a long time at her window reconstructing her rainbow castle, with\nseveral added domes and turrets.\n\n\"I wonder,\" she said to herself, \"if I am, or am not, engaged to\nKenneth Ford.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nTHE WEEKS WEAR BY\n\nRilla read her first love letter in her Rainbow Valley fir-shadowed\nnook, and a girl's first love letter, whatever blase, older people may\nthink of it, is an event of tremendous importance in the teens. After\nKenneth's regiment had left Kingsport there came a fortnight of\ndully-aching anxiety and when the congregation sang in Church on Sunday\nevenings,\n\n \"Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee\n For those in peril on the sea,\"\n\nRilla's voice always failed her; for with the words came a horribly\nvivid mind picture of a submarined ship sinking beneath pitiless waves\namid the struggles and cries of drowning men. Then word came that\nKenneth's regiment had arrived safely in England; and now, at last,\nhere was his letter. It began with something that made Rilla supremely\nhappy for the moment and ended with a paragraph that crimsoned her\ncheeks with the wonder and thrill and delight of it. Between beginning\nand ending the letter was just such a jolly, newsy epistle as Ken might\nhave written to anyone; but for the sake of that beginning and ending\nRilla slept with the letter under her pillow for weeks, sometimes\nwaking in the night to slip her fingers under and just touch it, and\nlooked with secret pity on other girls whose sweethearts could never\nhave written them anything half so wonderful and exquisite. Kenneth was\nnot the son of a famous novelist for nothing. He \"had a way\" of\nexpressing things in a few poignant, significant words that seemed to\nsuggest far more than they uttered, and never grew stale or flat or\nfoolish with ever so many scores of readings. Rilla went home from\nRainbow Valley as if she flew rather than walked.\n\nBut such moments of uplift were rare that autumn. To be sure, there was\none day in September when great news came of a big Allied victory in\nthe west and Susan ran out to hoist the flag--the first time she had\nhoisted it since the Russian line broke and the last time she was to\nhoist it for many dismal moons.\n\n\"Likely the Big Push has begun at last, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" she exclaimed,\n\"and we will soon see the finish of the Huns. Our boys will be home by\nChristmas now. Hurrah!\"\n\nSusan was ashamed of herself for hurrahing the minute she had done it,\nand apologized meekly for such an outburst of juvenility. \"But indeed,\nMrs. Dr. dear, this good news has gone to my head after this awful\nsummer of Russian slumps and Gallipoli setbacks.\"\n\n\"Good news!\" said Miss Oliver bitterly. \"I wonder if the women whose\nmen have been killed for it will call it good news. Just because our\nown men are not on that part of the front we are rejoicing as if the\nvictory had cost no lives.\"\n\n\"Now, Miss Oliver dear, do not take that view of it,\" deprecated Susan.\n\"We have not had much to rejoice over of late and yet men were being\nkilled just the same. Do not let yourself slump like poor Cousin\nSophia. She said, when the word came, 'Ah, it is nothing but a rift in\nthe clouds. We are up this week but we will be down the next.' 'Well,\nSophia Crawford,' said I,--for I will never give in to her, Mrs. Dr.\ndear--'God himself cannot make two hills without a hollow between them,\nas I have heard it said, but that is no reason why we should not take\nthe good of the hills when we are on them.' But Cousin Sophia moaned\non. 'Here is the Gallipolly expedition a failure and the Grand Duke\nNicholas sent off, and everyone knows the Czar of Rooshia is a\npro-German and the Allies have no ammunition and Bulgaria is going\nagainst us. And the end is not yet, for England and France must be\npunished for their deadly sins until they repent in sackcloth and\nashes.' 'I think myself,' I said, 'that they will do their repenting in\nkhaki and trench mud, and it seems to me that the Huns should have a\nfew sins to repent of also.' 'They are instruments in the hands of the\nAlmighty, to purge the garner,' said Sophia. And then I got mad, Mrs.\nDr. dear, and told her I did not and never would believe that the\nAlmighty ever took such dirty instruments in hand for any purpose\nwhatever, and that I did not consider it decent for her to be using the\nwords of Holy Writ as glibly as she was doing in ordinary conversation.\nShe was not, I told her, a minister or even an elder. And for the time\nbeing I squelched her, Mrs. Dr. dear. Cousin Sophia has no spirit. She\nis very different from her niece, Mrs. Dean Crawford over-harbour. You\nknow the Dean Crawfords had five boys and now the new baby is another\nboy. All the connection and especially Dean Crawford were much\ndisappointed because their hearts had been set on a girl; but Mrs. Dean\njust laughed and said, 'Everywhere I went this summer I saw the sign\n\"MEN WANTED\" staring me in the face. Do you think I could go and have a\ngirl under such circumstances?' There is spirit for you, Mrs. Dr. dear.\nBut Cousin Sophia would say the child was just so much more cannon\nfodder.\"\n\nCousin Sophia had full range for her pessimism that gloomy autumn, and\neven Susan, incorrigible old optimist as she was, was hard put to it\nfor cheer. When Bulgaria lined up with Germany Susan only remarked\nscornfully, \"One more nation anxious for a licking,\" but the Greek\ntangle worried her beyond her powers of philosophy to endure calmly.\n\n\"Constantine of Greece has a German wife, Mrs. Dr. dear, and that fact\nsquelches hope. To think that I should have lived to care what kind of\na wife Constantine of Greece had! The miserable creature is under his\nwife's thumb and that is a bad place for any man to be. I am an old\nmaid and an old maid has to be independent or she will be squashed out.\nBut if I had been a married woman, Mrs. Dr. dear, I would have been\nmeek and humble. It is my opinion that this Sophia of Greece is a minx.\"\n\nSusan was furious when the news came that Venizelos had met with\ndefeat. \"I could spank Constantine and skin him alive afterwards, that\nI could,\" she exclaimed bitterly.\n\n\"Oh, Susan, I'm surprised at you,\" said the doctor, pulling a long\nface. \"Have you no regard for the proprieties? Skin him alive by all\nmeans but omit the spanking.\"\n\n\"If he had been well spanked in his younger days he might have more\nsense now,\" retorted Susan. \"But I suppose princes are never spanked,\nmore is the pity. I see the Allies have sent him an ultimatum. I could\ntell them that it will take more than ultimatums to skin a snake like\nConstantine. Perhaps the Allied blockade will hammer sense into his\nhead; but that will take some time I am thinking, and in the meantime\nwhat is to become of poor Serbia?\"\n\nThey saw what became of Serbia, and during the process Susan was hardly\nto be lived with. In her exasperation she abused everything and\neverybody except Kitchener, and she fell upon poor President Wilson\ntooth and claw.\n\n\"If he had done his duty and gone into the war long ago we should not\nhave seen this mess in Serbia,\" she avowed.\n\n\"It would be a serious thing to plunge a great country like the United\nStates, with its mixed population, into the war, Susan,\" said the\ndoctor, who sometimes came to the defence of the President, not because\nhe thought Wilson needed it especially, but from an unholy love of\nbaiting Susan.\n\n\"Maybe, doctor dear--maybe! But that makes me think of the old story of\nthe girl who told her grandmother she was going to be married. 'It is a\nsolemn thing to be married,' said the old lady. 'Yes, but it is a\nsolemner thing not to be,' said the girl. And I can testify to that out\nof my own experience, doctor dear. And I think it is a solemner thing\nfor the Yankees that they have kept out of the war than it would have\nbeen if they had gone into it. However, though I do not know much about\nthem, I am of the opinion that we will see them starting something yet,\nWoodrow Wilson or no Woodrow Wilson, when they get it into their heads\nthat this war is not a correspondence school. They will not,\" said\nSusan, energetically waving a saucepan with one hand and a soup ladle\nwith the other, \"be too proud to fight then.\"\n\nOn a pale-yellow, windy evening in October Carl Meredith went away. He\nhad enlisted on his eighteenth birthday. John Meredith saw him off with\na set face. His two boys were gone--there was only little Bruce left\nnow. He loved Bruce and Bruce's mother dearly; but Jerry and Carl were\nthe sons of the bride of his youth and Carl was the only one of all his\nchildren who had Cecilia's very eyes. As they looked lovingly out at\nhim above Carl's uniform the pale minister suddenly remembered the day\nwhen for the first and last time he had tried to whip Carl for his\nprank with the eel. That was the first time he had realised how much\nCarl's eyes were like Cecilia's. Now he realised it again once more.\nWould he ever again see his dead wife's eyes looking at him from his\nson's face? What a bonny, clean, handsome lad he was! It was--hard--to\nsee him go. John Meredith seemed to be looking at a torn plain strewed\nwith the bodies of \"able-bodied men between the ages of eighteen and\nforty-five.\" Only the other day Carl had been a little scrap of a boy,\nhunting bugs in Rainbow Valley, taking lizards to bed with him, and\nscandalizing the Glen by carrying frogs to Sunday School. It seemed\nhardly--right--somehow that he should be an \"able-bodied man\" in khaki.\nYet John Meredith had said no word to dissuade him when Carl had told\nhim he must go.\n\nRilla felt Carl's going keenly. They had always been cronies and\nplaymates. He was only a little older than she was and they had been\nchildren in Rainbow Valley together. She recalled all their old pranks\nand escapades as she walked slowly home alone. The full moon peeped\nthrough the scudding clouds with sudden floods of weird illumination,\nthe telephone wires sang a shrill weird song in the wind, and the tall\nspikes of withered, grey-headed golden-rod in the fence corners swayed\nand beckoned wildly to her like groups of old witches weaving unholy\nspells. On such a night as this, long ago, Carl would come over to\nIngleside and whistle her out to the gate. \"Let's go on a moon-spree,\nRilla,\" he would say, and the two of them would scamper off to Rainbow\nValley. Rilla had never been afraid of his beetles and bugs, though she\ndrew a hard and fast line at snakes. They used to talk together of\nalmost everything and were teased about each other at school; but one\nevening when they were about ten years of age they had solemnly\npromised, by the old spring in Rainbow Valley, that they would never\nmarry each other. Alice Clow had \"crossed out\" their names on her slate\nin school that day, and it came out that \"both married.\" They did not\nlike the idea at all, hence the mutual vow in Rainbow Valley. There was\nnothing like an ounce of prevention. Rilla laughed over the old\nmemory--and then sighed. That very day a dispatch from some London\npaper had contained the cheerful announcement that \"the present moment\nis the darkest since the war began.\" It was dark enough, and Rilla\nwished desperately that she could do something besides waiting and\nserving at home, as day after day the Glen boys she had known went\naway. If she were only a boy, speeding in khaki by Carl's side to the\nWestern front! She had wished that in a burst of romance when Jem had\ngone, without, perhaps, really meaning it. She meant it now. There were\nmoments when waiting at home, in safety and comfort, seemed an\nunendurable thing.\n\nThe moon burst triumphantly through an especially dark cloud and shadow\nand silver chased each other in waves over the Glen. Rilla remembered\none moonlit evening of childhood when she had said to her mother, \"The\nmoon just looks like a sorry, sorry face.\" She thought it looked like\nthat still--an agonised, care-worn face, as though it looked down on\ndreadful sights. What did it see on the Western front? In broken\nSerbia? On shell-swept Gallipoli?\n\n\"I am tired,\" Miss Oliver had said that day, in a rare outburst of\nimpatience, \"of this horrible rack of strained emotions, when every day\nbrings a new horror or the dread of it. No, don't look reproachfully at\nme, Mrs. Blythe. There's nothing heroic about me today. I've slumped. I\nwish England had left Belgium to her fate--I wish Canada had never sent\na man--I wish we'd tied our boys to our apron strings and not let one\nof them go. Oh--I shall be ashamed of myself in half an hour--but at\nthis very minute I mean every word of it. Will the Allies never strike?\"\n\n\"Patience is a tired mare but she jogs on,\" said Susan.\n\n\"While the steeds of Armageddon thunder, trampling over our hearts,\"\nretorted Miss Oliver. \"Susan, tell me--don't you ever--didn't you\never--take spells of feeling that you must scream--or swear--or smash\nsomething--just because your torture reaches a point when it becomes\nunbearable?\"\n\n\"I have never sworn or desired to swear, Miss Oliver dear, but I will\nadmit,\" said Susan, with the air of one determined to make a clean\nbreast of it once and for all, \"that I have experienced occasions when\nit was a relief to do considerable banging.\"\n\n\"Don't you think that is a kind of swearing, Susan? What is the\ndifference between slamming a door viciously and saying d----\"\n\n\"Miss Oliver dear,\" interrupted Susan, desperately determined to save\nGertrude from herself, if human power could do it, \"you are all tired\nout and unstrung--and no wonder, teaching those obstreperous youngsters\nall day and coming home to bad war news. But just you go upstairs and\nlie down and I will bring you up a cup of hot tea and a bite of toast\nand very soon you will not want to slam doors or swear.\"\n\n\"Susan, you're a good soul--a very pearl of Susans! But, Susan, it\nwould be such a relief--to say just one soft, low, little tiny d---\"\n\n\"I will bring you a hot-water bottle for the soles of your feet, also,\"\ninterposed Susan resolutely, \"and it would not be any relief to say\nthat word you are thinking of, Miss Oliver, and that you may tie to.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll try the hot-water bottle first,\" said Miss Oliver,\nrepenting herself on teasing Susan and vanishing upstairs, to Susan's\nintense relief. Susan shook her head ominously as she filled the\nhot-water bottle. The war was certainly relaxing the standards of\nbehaviour woefully. Here was Miss Oliver admittedly on the point of\nprofanity.\n\n\"We must draw the blood from her brain,\" said Susan, \"and if this\nbottle is not effective I will see what can be done with a mustard\nplaster.\"\n\nGertrude rallied and carried on. Lord Kitchener went to Greece, whereat\nSusan foretold that Constantine would soon experience a change of\nheart. Lloyd George began to heckle the Allies regarding equipment and\nguns and Susan said you would hear more of Lloyd George yet. The\ngallant Anzacs withdrew from Gallipoli and Susan approved the step,\nwith reservations. The siege of Kut-El-Amara began and Susan pored over\nmaps of Mesopotamia and abused the Turks. Henry Ford started for Europe\nand Susan flayed him with sarcasm. Sir John French was superseded by\nSir Douglas Haig and Susan dubiously opined that it was poor policy to\nswap horses crossing a stream, \"though, to be sure, Haig was a good\nname and French had a foreign sound, say what you might.\" Not a move on\nthe great chess-board of king or bishop or pawn escaped Susan, who had\nonce read only Glen St. Mary notes. \"There was a time,\" she said\nsorrowfully, \"when I did not care what happened outside of P.E. Island,\nand now a king cannot have a toothache in Russia or China but it\nworries me. It may be broadening to the mind, as the doctor said, but\nit is very painful to the feelings.\"\n\nWhen Christmas came again Susan did not set any vacant places at the\nfestive board. Two empty chairs were too much even for Susan who had\nthought in September that there would not be one.\n\n\"This is the first Christmas that Walter was not home,\" Rilla wrote in\nher diary that night. \"Jem used to be away for Christmases up in\nAvonlea, but Walter never was. I had letters from Ken and him today.\nThey are still in England but expect to be in the trenches very soon.\nAnd then--but I suppose we'll be able to endure it somehow. To me, the\nstrangest of all the strange things since 1914 is how we have all\nlearned to accept things we never thought we could--to go on with life\nas a matter of course. I know that Jem and Jerry are in the\ntrenches--that Ken and Walter will be soon--that if one of them does\nnot come back my heart will break--yet I go on and work and plan--yes,\nand even enjoy life by times. There are moments when we have real fun\nbecause, just for the moment, we don't think about things and then--we\nremember--and the remembering is worse than thinking of it all the time\nwould have been.\n\n\"Today was dark and cloudy and tonight is wild enough, as Gertrude\nsays, to please any novelist in search of suitable matter for a murder\nor elopement. The raindrops streaming over the panes look like tears\nrunning down a face, and the wind is shrieking through the maple grove.\n\n\"This hasn't been a nice Christmas Day in any way. Nan had toothache\nand Susan had red eyes, and assumed a weird and gruesome flippancy of\nmanner to deceive us into thinking she hadn't; and Jims had a bad cold\nall day and I'm afraid of croup. He has had croup twice since October.\nThe first time I was nearly frightened to death, for father and mother\nwere both away--father always is away, it seems to me, when any of this\nhousehold gets sick. But Susan was cool as a fish and knew just what to\ndo, and by morning Jims was all right. That child is a cross between a\nduck and an imp. He's a year and four months old, trots about\neverywhere, and says quite a few words. He has the cutest little way of\ncalling me \"Willa-will.\" It always brings back that dreadful,\nridiculous, delightful night when Ken came to say good-bye, and I was\nso furious and happy. Jims is pink and white and big-eyed and\ncurly-haired and every now and then I discover a new dimple in him. I\ncan never quite believe he is really the same creature as that scrawny,\nyellow, ugly little changeling I brought home in the soup tureen.\nNobody has ever heard a word from Jim Anderson. If he never comes back\nI shall keep Jims always. Everybody here worships and spoils him--or\nwould spoil him if Morgan and I didn't stand remorselessly in the way.\nSusan says Jims is the cleverest child she ever saw and can recognize\nOld Nick when he sees him--this because Jims threw poor Doc out of an\nupstairs window one day. Doc turned into Mr. Hyde on his way down and\nlanded in a currant bush, spitting and swearing. I tried to console his\ninner cat with a saucer of milk but he would have none of it, and\nremained Mr. Hyde the rest of the day. Jims's latest exploit was to\npaint the cushion of the big arm-chair in the sun parlour with\nmolasses; and before anybody found it out Mrs. Fred Clow came in on Red\nCross business and sat down on it. Her new silk dress was ruined and\nnobody could blame her for being vexed. But she went into one of her\ntempers and said nasty things and gave me such slams about 'spoiling'\nJims that I nearly boiled over, too. But I kept the lid on till she had\nwaddled away and then I exploded.\n\n\"'The fat, clumsy, horrid old thing,' I said--and oh, what a\nsatisfaction it was to say it.\n\n\"'She has three sons at the front,' mother said rebukingly.\n\n\"'I suppose that covers all her shortcomings in manners,' I retorted.\nBut I was ashamed--for it is true that all her boys have gone and she\nwas very plucky and loyal about it too; and she is a perfect tower of\nstrength in the Red Cross. It's a little hard to remember all the\nheroines. Just the same, it was her second new silk dress in one year\nand that when everybody is--or should be--trying to 'save and serve.'\n\n\"I had to bring out my green velvet hat again lately and begin wearing\nit. I hung on to my blue straw sailor as long as I could. How I hate\nthe green velvet hat! It is so elaborate and conspicuous. I don't see\nhow I could ever have liked it. But I vowed to wear it and wear it I\nwill.\n\n\"Shirley and I went down to the station this morning to take Little Dog\nMonday a bang-up Christmas dinner. Dog Monday waits and watches there\nstill, with just as much hope and confidence as ever. Sometimes he\nhangs around the station house and talks to people and the rest of his\ntime he sits at his little kennel door and watches the track\nunwinkingly. We never try to coax him home now: we know it is of no\nuse. When Jem comes back, Monday will come home with him; and if\nJem--never comes back--Monday will wait there for him as long as his\ndear dog heart goes on beating.\n\n\"Fred Arnold was here last night. He was eighteen in November and is\ngoing to enlist just as soon as his mother is over an operation she has\nto have. He has been coming here very often lately and though I like\nhim so much it makes me uncomfortable, because I am afraid he is\nthinking that perhaps I could care something for him. I can't tell him\nabout Ken--because, after all, what is there to tell? And yet I don't\nlike to behave coldly and distantly when he will be going away so soon.\nIt is very perplexing. I remember I used to think it would be such fun\nto have dozens of beaux--and now I'm worried to death because two are\ntoo many.\n\n\"I am learning to cook. Susan is teaching me. I tried to learn long\nago--but no, let me be honest--Susan tried to teach me, which is a very\ndifferent thing. I never seemed to succeed with anything and I got\ndiscouraged. But since the boys have gone away I wanted to be able to\nmake cake and things for them myself and so I started in again and this\ntime I'm getting on surprisingly well. Susan says it is all in the way\nI hold my mouth and father says my subconscious mind is desirous of\nlearning now, and I dare say they're both right. Anyhow, I can make\ndandy short-bread and fruitcake. I got ambitious last week and\nattempted cream puffs, but made an awful failure of them. They came out\nof the oven flat as flukes. I thought maybe the cream would fill them\nup again and make them plump but it didn't. I think Susan was secretly\npleased. She is past mistress in the art of making cream puffs and it\nwould break her heart if anyone else here could make them as well. I\nwonder if Susan tampered--but no, I won't suspect her of such a thing.\n\n\"Miranda Pryor spent an afternoon here a few days ago, helping me cut\nout certain Red Cross garments known by the charming name of 'vermin\nshirts.' Susan thinks that name is not quite decent, so I suggested she\ncall them 'cootie sarks,' which is old Highland Sandy's version of it.\nBut she shook her head and I heard her telling mother later that, in\nher opinion, 'cooties' and 'sarks' were not proper subjects for young\ngirls to talk about. She was especially horrified when Jem wrote in his\nlast letter to mother, 'Tell Susan I had a fine cootie hunt this\nmorning and caught fifty-three!' Susan positively turned pea-green.\n'Mrs. Dr. dear,' she said, 'when I was young, if decent people were so\nunfortunate as to get--those insects--they kept it a secret if\npossible. I do not want to be narrow-minded, Mrs. Dr. dear, but I still\nthink it is better not to mention such things.'\n\n\"Miranda grew confidential over our vermin shirts and told me all her\ntroubles. She is desperately unhappy. She is engaged to Joe Milgrave\nand Joe joined up in October and has been training in Charlottetown\never since. Her father was furious when he joined and forbade Miranda\never to have any dealing or communication with him again. Poor Joe\nexpects to go overseas any day and wants Miranda to marry him before he\ngoes, which shows that there have been 'communications' in spite of\nWhiskers-on-the-moon. Miranda wants to marry him but cannot, and she\ndeclares it will break her heart.\n\n\"'Why don't you run away and marry him?' I said. It didn't go against\nmy conscience in the least to give her such advice. Joe Milgrave is a\nsplendid fellow and Mr. Pryor fairly beamed on him until the war broke\nout and I know Mr. Pryor would forgive Miranda very quickly, once it\nwas over and he wanted his housekeeper back. But Miranda shook her\nsilvery head dolefully.\n\n\"'Joe wants me to but I can't. Mother's last words to me, as she lay on\nher dying-bed, were, \"Never, never run away, Miranda,\" and I promised.'\n\n\"Miranda's mother died two years ago, and it seems, according to\nMiranda, that her mother and father actually ran away to be married\nthemselves. To picture Whiskers-on-the-moon as the hero of an elopement\nis beyond my power. But such was the case and Mrs. Pryor at least lived\nto repent it. She had a hard life of it with Mr. Pryor, and she thought\nit was a punishment on her for running away. So she made Miranda\npromise she would never, for any reason whatever, do it.\n\n\"Of course, you cannot urge a girl to break a promise made to a dying\nmother, so I did not see what Miranda could do unless she got Joe to\ncome to the house when her father was away and marry her there. But\nMiranda said that couldn't be managed. Her father seemed to suspect she\nmight be up to something of the sort and he never went away for long at\na time, and, of course, Joe couldn't get leave of absence at an hour's\nnotice.\n\n\"'No, I shall just have to let Joe go, and he will be killed--I know he\nwill be killed--and my heart will break,' said Miranda, her tears\nrunning down and copiously bedewing the vermin shirts!\n\n\"I am not writing like this for lack of any real sympathy with poor\nMiranda. I've just got into the habit of giving things a comical twist\nif I can, when I'm writing to Jem and Walter and Ken, to make them\nlaugh. I really felt sorry for Miranda who is as much in love with Joe\nas a china-blue girl can be with anyone and who is dreadfully ashamed\nof her father's pro-German sentiments. I think she understood that I\ndid, for she said she had wanted to tell me all about her worries\nbecause I had grown so sympathetic this past year. I wonder if I have.\nI know I used to be a selfish, thoughtless creature--how selfish and\nthoughtless I am ashamed to remember now, so I can't be quite so bad as\nI was.\n\n\"I wish I could help Miranda. It would be very romantic to contrive a\nwar-wedding and I should dearly love to get the better of\nWhiskers-on-the-moon. But at present the oracle has not spoken.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nA WAR-WEDDING\n\n\"I can tell you this Dr. dear,\" said Susan, pale with wrath, \"that\nGermany is getting to be perfectly ridiculous.\"\n\nThey were all in the big Ingleside kitchen. Susan was mixing biscuits\nfor supper. Mrs. Blythe was making shortbread for Jem, and Rilla was\ncompounding candy for Ken and Walter--it had once been \"Walter and Ken\"\nin her thoughts but somehow, quite unconsciously, this had changed\nuntil Ken's name came naturally first. Cousin Sophia was also there,\nknitting. All the boys were going to be killed in the long run, so\nCousin Sophia felt in her bones, but they might better die with warm\nfeet than cold ones, so Cousin Sophia knitted faithfully and gloomily.\n\nInto this peaceful scene erupted the doctor, wrathful and excited over\nthe burning of the Parliament Buildings in Ottawa. And Susan became\nautomatically quite as wrathful and excited.\n\n\"What will those Huns do next?\" she demanded. \"Coming over here and\nburning our Parliament building! Did anyone ever hear of such an\noutrage?\"\n\n\"We don't know that the Germans are responsible for this,\" said the\ndoctor--much as if he felt quite sure they were. \"Fires do start\nwithout their agency sometimes. And Uncle Mark MacAllister's barn was\nburnt last week. You can hardly accuse the Germans of that, Susan.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Dr. dear, I do not know.\" Susan nodded slowly and\nportentously. \"Whiskers-on-the-moon was there that very day. The fire\nbroke out half an hour after he was gone. So much is a fact--but I\nshall not accuse a Presbyterian elder of burning anybody's barn until I\nhave proof. However, everybody knows, Dr. dear, that both Uncle Mark's\nboys have enlisted, and that Uncle Mark himself makes speeches at all\nthe recruiting meetings. So no doubt Germany is anxious to get square\nwith him.\"\n\n\"I could never speak at a recruiting meeting,\" said Cousin Sophia\nsolemnly. \"I could never reconcile it to my conscience to ask another\nwoman's son to go, to murder and be murdered.\"\n\n\"Could you not?\" said Susan. \"Well, Sophia Crawford, I felt as if I\ncould ask anyone to go when I read last night that there were no\nchildren under eight years of age left alive in Poland. Think of that,\nSophia Crawford\"--Susan shook a floury finger at\nSophia--\"not--one--child--under--eight--years--of--age!\"\n\n\"I suppose the Germans has et 'em all,\" sighed Cousin Sophia.\n\n\"Well, no-o-o,\" said Susan reluctantly, as if she hated to admit that\nthere was any crime the Huns couldn't be accused of. \"The Germans have\nnot turned cannibal yet--as far as I know. They have died of starvation\nand exposure, the poor little creatures. There is murdering for you,\nCousin Sophia Crawford. The thought of it poisons every bite and sup I\ntake.\"\n\n\"I see that Fred Carson of Lowbridge has been awarded a Distinguished\nConduct Medal,\" remarked the doctor, over his local paper.\n\n\"I heard that last week,\" said Susan. \"He is a battalion runner and he\ndid something extra brave and daring. His letter, telling his folks\nabout it, came when his old Grandmother Carson was on her dying-bed.\nShe had only a few minutes more to live and the Episcopal minister, who\nwas there, asked her if she would not like him to pray. 'Oh yes, yes,\nyou can pray,' she said impatient-like--she was a Dean, Dr. dear, and\nthe Deans were always high-spirited--'you can pray, but for pity's sake\npray low and don't disturb me. I want to think over this splendid news\nand I have not much time left to do it.' That was Almira Carson all\nover. Fred was the apple of her eye. She was seventy-five years of age\nand had not a grey hair in her head, they tell me.\"\n\n\"By the way, that reminds me--I found a grey hair this morning--my very\nfirst,\" said Mrs. Blythe.\n\n\"I have noticed that grey hair for some time, Mrs. Dr. dear, but I did\nnot speak of it. Thought I to myself, 'She has enough to bear.' But now\nthat you have discovered it let me remind you that grey hairs are\nhonourable.\"\n\n\"I must be getting old, Gilbert.\" Mrs. Blythe laughed a trifle\nruefully. \"People are beginning to tell me I look so young. They never\ntell you that when you are young. But I shall not worry over my silver\nthread. I never liked red hair. Gilbert, did I ever tell you of that\ntime, years ago at Green Gables, when I dyed my hair? Nobody but\nMarilla and I knew about it.\"\n\n\"Was that the reason you came out once with your hair shingled to the\nbone?\"\n\n\"Yes. I bought a bottle of dye from a German Jew pedlar. I fondly\nexpected it would turn my hair black--and it turned it green. So it had\nto be cut off.\"\n\n\"You had a narrow escape, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" exclaimed Susan. \"Of course\nyou were too young then to know what a German was. It was a special\nmercy of Providence that it was only green dye and not poison.\"\n\n\"It seems hundreds of years since those Green Gables days,\" sighed Mrs.\nBlythe. \"They belonged to another world altogether. Life has been cut\nin two by the chasm of war. What is ahead I don't know--but it can't be\na bit like the past. I wonder if those of us who have lived half our\nlives in the old world will ever feel wholly at home in the new.\"\n\n\"Have you noticed,\" asked Miss Oliver, glancing up from her book, \"how\neverything written before the war seems so far away now, too? One feels\nas if one was reading something as ancient as the Iliad. This poem of\nWordsworth's--the Senior class have it in their entrance work--I've\nbeen glancing over it. Its classic calm and repose and the beauty of\nthe lines seem to belong to another planet, and to have as little to do\nwith the present world-welter as the evening star.\"\n\n\"The only thing that I find much comfort in reading nowadays is the\nBible,\" remarked Susan, whisking her biscuits into the oven. \"There are\nso many passages in it that seem to me exactly descriptive of the Huns.\nOld Highland Sandy declares that there is no doubt that the Kaiser is\nthe Anti-Christ spoken of in Revelations, but I do not go as far as\nthat. It would, in my humble opinion, Mrs. Dr. dear, be too great an\nhonour for him.\"\n\nEarly one morning, several days later, Miranda Pryor slipped up to\nIngleside, ostensibly to get some Red Cross sewing, but in reality to\ntalk over with sympathetic Rilla troubles that were past bearing alone.\nShe brought her dog with her--an over-fed, bandy-legged little animal\nvery dear to her heart because Joe Milgrave had given it to her when it\nwas a puppy. Mr. Pryor regarded all dogs with disfavour; but in those\ndays he had looked kindly upon Joe as a suitor for Miranda's hand and\nso he had allowed her to keep the puppy. Miranda was so grateful that\nshe endeavoured to please her father by naming her dog after his\npolitical idol, the great Liberal chieftain, Sir Wilfrid\nLaurier--though his title was soon abbreviated to Wilfy. Sir Wilfrid\ngrew and flourished and waxed fat; but Miranda spoiled him absurdly and\nnobody else liked him. Rilla especially hated him because of his\ndetestable trick of lying flat on his back and entreating you with\nwaving paws to tickle his sleek stomach. When she saw that Miranda's\npale eyes bore unmistakable testimony of her having cried all night,\nRilla asked her to come up to her room, knowing Miranda had a tale of\nwoe to tell, but she ordered Sir Wilfrid to remain below.\n\n\"Oh, can't he come, too?\" said Miranda wistfully. \"Poor Wilfy won't be\nany bother--and I wiped his paws so carefully before I brought him in.\nHe is always so lonesome in a strange place without me--and very soon\nhe'll be--all--I'll have left--to remind me--of Joe.\"\n\nRilla yielded, and Sir Wilfrid, with his tail curled at a saucy angle\nover his brindled back, trotted triumphantly up the stairs before them.\n\n\"Oh, Rilla,\" sobbed Miranda, when they had reached sanctuary. \"I'm so\nunhappy. I can't begin to tell you how unhappy I am. Truly, my heart is\nbreaking.\"\n\nRilla sat down on the lounge beside her. Sir Wilfrid squatted on his\nhaunches before them, with his impertinent pink tongue stuck out, and\nlistened. \"What is the trouble, Miranda?\"\n\n\"Joe is coming home tonight on his last leave. I had a letter from him\non Saturday--he sends my letters in care of Bob Crawford, you know,\nbecause of father--and, oh, Rilla, he will only have four days--he has\nto go away Friday morning--and I may never see him again.\"\n\n\"Does he still want you to marry him?\" asked Rilla.\n\n\"Oh, yes. He implored me in his letter to run away and be married. But\nI cannot do that, Rilla, not even for Joe. My only comfort is that I\nwill be able to see him for a little while tomorrow afternoon. Father\nhas to go to Charlottetown on business. At least we will have one good\nfarewell talk. But oh--afterwards--why, Rilla, I know father won't even\nlet me go to the station Friday morning to see Joe off.\"\n\n\"Why in the world don't you and Joe get married tomorrow afternoon at\nhome?\" demanded Rilla.\n\nMiranda swallowed a sob in such amazement that she almost choked.\n\n\"Why--why--that is impossible, Rilla.\"\n\n\"Why?\" briefly demanded the organizer of the Junior Red Cross and the\ntransporter of babies in soup tureens.\n\n\"Why--why--we never thought of such a thing--Joe hasn't a license--I\nhave no dress--I couldn't be married in black--I--I--we--you--you--\"\nMiranda lost herself altogether and Sir Wilfrid, seeing that she was in\ndire distress threw back his head and emitted a melancholy yelp.\n\nRilla Blythe thought hard and rapidly for a few minutes. Then she said,\n\"Miranda, if you will put yourself into my hands I'll have you married\nto Joe before four o'clock tomorrow afternoon.\"\n\n\"Oh, you couldn't.\"\n\n\"I can and I will. But you'll have to do exactly as I tell you.\"\n\n\"Oh--I--don't think--oh, father will kill me--\"\n\n\"Nonsense. He'll be very angry I suppose. But are you more afraid of\nyour father's anger than you are of Joe's never coming back to you?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Miranda, with sudden firmness, \"I'm not.\"\n\n\"Will you do as I tell you then?\"\n\n\"Yes, I will.\"\n\n\"Then get Joe on the long-distance at once and tell him to bring out a\nlicense and ring tonight.\"\n\n\"Oh, I couldn't,\" wailed the aghast Miranda, \"it--it would be so--so\nindelicate.\"\n\nRilla shut her little white teeth together with a snap. \"Heaven grant\nme patience,\" she said under her breath. \"I'll do it then,\" she said\naloud, \"and meanwhile, you go home and make what preparations you can.\nWhen I 'phone down to you to come up and help me sew come at once.\"\n\nAs soon as Miranda, pallid, scared, but desperately resolved, had gone,\nRilla flew to the telephone and put in a long-distance call for\nCharlottetown. She got through with such surprising quickness that she\nwas convinced Providence approved of her undertaking, but it was a good\nhour before she could get in touch with Joe Milgrave at his camp.\nMeanwhile, she paced impatiently about, and prayed that when she did\nget Joe there would be no listeners on the line to carry news to\nWhiskers-on-the-moon.\n\n\"Is that you, Joe? Rilla Blythe is speaking--Rilla--Rilla--oh, never\nmind. Listen to this. Before you come home tonight get a marriage\nlicense--a marriage license--yes, a marriage license--and a\nwedding-ring. Did you get that? And will you do it? Very well, be sure\nyou do it--it is your only chance.\"\n\nFlushed with triumph--for her only fear was that she might not be able\nto locate Joe in time--Rilla rang the Pryor ring. This time she had not\nsuch good luck for she drew Whiskers-on-the-moon.\n\n\"Is that Miranda? Oh--Mr. Pryor! Well, Mr. Pryor, will you kindly ask\nMiranda if she can come up this afternoon and help me with some sewing.\nIt is very important, or I would not trouble her. Oh--thank you.\"\n\nMr. Pryor had consented somewhat grumpily, but he had consented--he did\nnot want to offend Dr. Blythe, and he knew that if he refused to allow\nMiranda to do any Red Cross work public opinion would make the Glen too\nhot for comfort. Rilla went out to the kitchen, shut all the doors with\na mysterious expression which alarmed Susan, and then said solemnly,\n\"Susan can you make a wedding-cake this afternoon?\"\n\n\"A wedding-cake!\" Susan stared. Rilla had, without any warning, brought\nher a war-baby once upon a time. Was she now, with equal suddenness,\ngoing to produce a husband?\n\n\"Yes, a wedding-cake--a scrumptious wedding-cake, Susan--a beautiful,\nplummy, eggy, citron-peely wedding-cake. And we must make other things\ntoo. I'll help you in the morning. But I can't help you in the\nafternoon for I have to make a wedding-dress and time is the essence of\nthe contract, Susan.\"\n\nSusan felt that she was really too old to be subjected to such shocks.\n\n\"Who are you going to marry, Rilla?\" she asked feebly.\n\n\"Susan, darling, I am not the happy bride. Miranda Pryor is going to\nmarry Joe Milgrave tomorrow afternoon while her father is away in town.\nA war-wedding, Susan--isn't that thrilling and romantic? I never was so\nexcited in my life.\"\n\nThe excitement soon spread over Ingleside, infecting even Mrs. Blythe\nand Susan.\n\n\"I'll go to work on that cake at once,\" vowed Susan, with a glance at\nthe clock. \"Mrs. Dr. dear, will you pick over the fruit and beat up the\neggs? If you will I can have that cake ready for the oven by the\nevening. Tomorrow morning we can make salads and other things. I will\nwork all night if necessary to get the better of Whiskers-on-the-moon.\"\n\nMiranda arrived, tearful and breathless.\n\n\"We must fix over my white dress for you to wear,\" said Rilla. \"It will\nfit you very nicely with a little alteration.\"\n\nTo work went the two girls, ripping, fitting, basting, sewing for dear\nlife. By dint of unceasing effort they got the dress done by seven\no'clock and Miranda tried it on in Rilla's room.\n\n\"It's very pretty--but oh, if I could just have a veil,\" sighed\nMiranda. \"I've always dreamed of being married in a lovely white veil.\"\n\nSome good fairy evidently waits on the wishes of war-brides. The door\nopened and Mrs. Blythe came in, her arms full of a filmy burden.\n\n\"Miranda dear,\" she said, \"I want you to wear my wedding-veil tomorrow.\nIt is twenty-four years since I was a bride at old Green Gables--the\nhappiest bride that ever was--and the wedding-veil of a happy bride\nbrings good luck, they say.\"\n\n\"Oh, how sweet of you, Mrs. Blythe,\" said Miranda, the ready tears\nstarting to her eyes.\n\nThe veil was tried on and draped. Susan dropped in to approve but dared\nnot linger.\n\n\"I've got that cake in the oven,\" she said, \"and I am pursuing a policy\nof watchful waiting. The evening news is that the Grand Duke has\ncaptured Erzerum. That is a pill for the Turks. I wish I had a chance\nto tell the Czar just what a mistake he made when he turned Nicholas\ndown.\"\n\nSusan disappeared downstairs to the kitchen, whence a dreadful thud and\na piercing shriek presently sounded. Everybody rushed to the\nkitchen--the doctor and Miss Oliver, Mrs. Blythe, Rilla, Miranda in her\nwedding-veil. Susan was sitting flatly in the middle of the kitchen\nfloor with a dazed, bewildered look on her face, while Doc, evidently\nin his Hyde incarnation, was standing on the dresser, with his back up,\nhis eyes blazing, and his tail the size of three tails.\n\n\"Susan, what has happened?\" cried Mrs. Blythe in alarm. \"Did you fall?\nAre you hurt?\"\n\nSusan picked herself up.\n\n\"No,\" she said grimly, \"I am not hurt, though I am jarred all over. Do\nnot be alarmed. As for what has happened--I tried to kick that darned\ncat with both feet, that is what happened.\"\n\nEverybody shrieked with laughter. The doctor was quite helpless.\n\n\"Oh, Susan, Susan,\" he gasped. \"That I should live to hear you swear.\"\n\n\"I am sorry,\" said Susan in real distress, \"that I used such an\nexpression before two young girls. But I said that beast was darned,\nand darned it is. It belongs to Old Nick.\"\n\n\"Do you expect it will vanish some of these days with a bang and the\nodour of brimstone, Susan?\"\n\n\"It will go to its own place in due time and that you may tie to,\" said\nSusan dourly, shaking out her raddled bones and going to her oven. \"I\nsuppose my plunking down like that has shaken my cake so that it will\nbe as heavy as lead.\"\n\nBut the cake was not heavy. It was all a bride's cake should be, and\nSusan iced it beautifully. Next day she and Rilla worked all the\nforenoon, making delicacies for the wedding-feast, and as soon as\nMiranda phoned up that her father was safely off everything was packed\nin a big hamper and taken down to the Pryor house. Joe soon arrived in\nhis uniform and a state of violent excitement, accompanied by his best\nman, Sergeant Malcolm Crawford. There were quite a few guests, for all\nthe Manse and Ingleside folk were there, and a dozen or so of Joe's\nrelatives, including his mother, \"Mrs. Dead Angus Milgrave,\" so called,\ncheerfully, to distinguish her from another lady whose Angus was\nliving. Mrs. Dead Angus wore a rather disapproving expression, not\ncaring over-much for this alliance with the house of\nWhiskers-on-the-moon.\n\nSo Miranda Pryor was married to Private Joseph Milgrave on his last\nleave. It should have been a romantic wedding but it was not. There\nwere too many factors working against romance, as even Rilla had to\nadmit. In the first place, Miranda, in spite of her dress and veil, was\nsuch a flat-faced, commonplace, uninteresting little bride. In the\nsecond place, Joe cried bitterly all through the ceremony, and this\nvexed Miranda unreasonably. Long afterwards she told Rilla, \"I just\nfelt like saying to him then and there, 'If you feel so bad over having\nto marry me you don't have to.' But it was just because he was thinking\nall the time of how soon he would have to leave me.\"\n\nIn the third place, Jims, who was usually so well-behaved in public,\ntook a fit of shyness and contrariness combined and began to cry at the\ntop of his voice for \"Willa.\" Nobody wanted to take him out, because\neverybody wanted to see the marriage, so Rilla who was a bridesmaid,\nhad to take him and hold him during the ceremony.\n\nIn the fourth place, Sir Wilfrid Laurier took a fit.\n\nSir Wilfrid was entrenched in a corner of the room behind Miranda's\npiano. During his seizure he made the weirdest, most unearthly noises.\nHe would begin with a series of choking, spasmodic sounds, continuing\ninto a gruesome gurgle, and ending up with a strangled howl. Nobody\ncould hear a word Mr. Meredith was saying, except now and then, when\nSir Wilfrid stopped for breath. Nobody looked at the bride except\nSusan, who never dragged her fascinated eyes from Miranda's face--all\nthe others were gazing at the dog. Miranda had been trembling with\nnervousness but as soon as Sir Wilfrid began his performance she forgot\nit. All that she could think of was that her dear dog was dying and she\ncould not go to him. She never remembered a word of the ceremony.\n\nRilla, who in spite of Jims, had been trying her best to look rapt and\nromantic, as beseemed a war bridesmaid, gave up the hopeless attempt,\nand devoted her energies to choking down untimely merriment. She dared\nnot look at anybody in the room, especially Mrs. Dead Angus, for fear\nall her suppressed mirth should suddenly explode in a most\nun-young-ladylike yell of laughter.\n\nBut married they were, and then they had a wedding-supper in the\ndining-room which was so lavish and bountiful that you would have\nthought it was the product of a month's labour. Everybody had brought\nsomething. Mrs. Dead Angus had brought a large apple-pie, which she\nplaced on a chair in the dining-room and then absently sat down on it.\nNeither her temper nor her black silk wedding garment was improved\nthereby, but the pie was never missed at the gay bridal feast. Mrs.\nDead Angus eventually took it home with her again.\nWhiskers-on-the-moon's pacifist pig should not get it, anyhow.\n\nThat evening Mr. and Mrs. Joe, accompanied by the recovered Sir\nWilfrid, departed for the Four Winds Lighthouse, which was kept by\nJoe's uncle and in which they meant to spend their brief honeymoon. Una\nMeredith and Rilla and Susan washed the dishes, tidied up, left a cold\nsupper and Miranda's pitiful little note on the table for Mr. Pryor,\nand walked home, while the mystic veil of dreamy, haunted winter\ntwilight wrapped itself over the Glen.\n\n\"I would really not have minded being a war-bride myself,\" remarked\nSusan sentimentally.\n\nBut Rilla felt rather flat--perhaps as a reaction to all the excitement\nand rush of the past thirty-six hours. She was disappointed\nsomehow--the whole affair had been so ludicrous, and Miranda and Joe so\nlachrymose and commonplace.\n\n\"If Miranda hadn't given that wretched dog such an enormous dinner he\nwouldn't have had that fit,\" she said crossly. \"I warned her--but she\nsaid she couldn't starve the poor dog--he would soon be all she had\nleft, etc. I could have shaken her.\"\n\n\"The best man was more excited than Joe was,\" said Susan. \"He wished\nMiranda many happy returns of the day. She did not look very happy, but\nperhaps you could not expect that under the circumstances.\"\n\n\"Anyhow,\" thought Rilla, \"I can write a perfectly killing account of it\nall to the boys. How Jem will howl over Sir Wilfrid's part in it!\"\n\nBut if Rilla was rather disappointed in the war wedding she found\nnothing lacking on Friday morning when Miranda said good-bye to her\nbridegroom at the Glen station. The dawn was white as a pearl, clear as\na diamond. Behind the station the balsamy copse of young firs was\nfrost-misted. The cold moon of dawn hung over the westering snow fields\nbut the golden fleeces of sunrise shone above the maples up at\nIngleside. Joe took his pale little bride in his arms and she lifted\nher face to his. Rilla choked suddenly. It did not matter that Miranda\nwas insignificant and commonplace and flat-featured. It did not matter\nthat she was the daughter of Whiskers-on-the-moon. All that mattered\nwas that rapt, sacrificial look in her eyes--that ever-burning, sacred\nfire of devotion and loyalty and fine courage that she was mutely\npromising Joe she and thousands of other women would keep alive at home\nwhile their men held the Western front. Rilla walked away, realising\nthat she must not spy on such a moment. She went down to the end of the\nplatform where Sir Wilfrid and Dog Monday were sitting, looking at each\nother.\n\nSir Wilfrid remarked condescendingly: \"Why do you haunt this old shed\nwhen you might lie on the hearthrug at Ingleside and live on the fat of\nthe land? Is it a pose? Or a fixed idea?\"\n\nWhereat Dog Monday, laconically: \"I have a tryst to keep.\"\n\nWhen the train had gone Rilla rejoined the little trembling Miranda.\n\"Well, he's gone,\" said Miranda, \"and he may never come back--but I'm\nhis wife, and I'm going to be worthy of him. I'm going home.\"\n\n\"Don't you think you had better come with me now?\" asked Rilla\ndoubtfully. Nobody knew yet how Mr. Pryor had taken the matter.\n\n\"No. If Joe can face the Huns I guess I can face father,\" said Miranda\ndaringly. \"A soldier's wife can't be a coward. Come on, Wilfy. I'll go\nstraight home and meet the worst.\"\n\nThere was nothing very dreadful to face, however. Perhaps Mr. Pryor had\nreflected that housekeepers were hard to get and that there were many\nMilgrave homes open to Miranda--also, that there was such a thing as a\nseparation allowance. At all events, though he told her grumpily that\nshe had made a nice fool of herself, and would live to regret it, he\nsaid nothing worse, and Mrs. Joe put on her apron and went to work as\nusual, while Sir Wilfrid Laurier, who had a poor opinion of lighthouses\nfor winter residences, went to sleep in his pet nook behind the\nwoodbox, a thankful dog that he was done with war-weddings.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\"THEY SHALL NOT PASS\"\n\nOne cold grey morning in February Gertrude Oliver wakened with a\nshiver, slipped into Rilla's room, and crept in beside her.\n\n\"Rilla--I'm frightened--frightened as a baby--I've had another of my\nstrange dreams. Something terrible is before us--I know.\"\n\n\"What was it?\" asked Rilla.\n\n\"I was standing again on the veranda steps--just as I stood in that\ndream on the night before the lighthouse dance, and in the sky a huge\nblack, menacing thunder cloud rolled up from the east. I could see its\nshadow racing before it and when it enveloped me I shivered with icy\ncold. Then the storm broke--and it was a dreadful storm--blinding flash\nafter flash and deafening peal after peal, driving torrents of rain. I\nturned in panic and tried to run for shelter, and as I did so a man--a\nsoldier in the uniform of a French army officer--dashed up the steps\nand stood beside me on the threshold of the door. His clothes were\nsoaked with blood from a wound in his breast, he seemed spent and\nexhausted; but his white face was set and his eyes blazed in his hollow\nface. 'They shall not pass,' he said, in low, passionate tones which I\nheard distinctly amid all the turmoil of the storm. Then I awakened.\nRilla, I'm frightened--the spring will not bring the Big Push we've all\nbeen hoping for--instead it is going to bring some dreadful blow to\nFrance. I am sure of it. The Germans will try to smash through\nsomewhere.\"\n\n\"But he told you that they would not pass,\" said Rilla, seriously. She\nnever laughed at Gertrude's dreams as the doctor did.\n\n\"I do not know if that was prophecy or desperation, Rilla, the horror\nof that dream holds me yet in an icy grip. We shall need all our\ncourage before long.\"\n\nDr. Blythe did laugh at the breakfast table--but he never laughed at\nMiss Oliver's dreams again; for that day brought news of the opening of\nthe Verdun offensive, and thereafter through all the beautiful weeks of\nspring the Ingleside family, one and all, lived in a trance of dread.\nThere were days when they waited in despair for the end as foot by foot\nthe Germans crept nearer and nearer to the grim barrier of desperate\nFrance.\n\nSusan's deeds were in her spotless kitchen at Ingleside, but her\nthoughts were on the hills around Verdun. \"Mrs. Dr. dear,\" she would\nstick her head in at Mrs. Blythe's door the last thing at night to\nremark, \"I do hope the French have hung onto the Crow's Wood today,\"\nand she woke at dawn to wonder if Dead Man's Hill--surely named by some\nprophet--was still held by the \"poyloos.\" Susan could have drawn a map\nof the country around Verdun that would have satisfied a chief of staff.\n\n\"If the Germans capture Verdun the spirit of France will be broken,\"\nMiss Oliver said bitterly.\n\n\"But they will not capture it,\" staunchly said Susan, who could not eat\nher dinner that day for fear lest they do that very thing. \"In the\nfirst place, you dreamed they would not--you dreamed the very thing the\nFrench are saying before they ever said it--'they shall not pass.' I\ndeclare to you, Miss Oliver, dear, when I read that in the paper, and\nremembered your dream, I went cold all over with awe. It seemed to me\nlike Biblical times when people dreamed things like that quite\nfrequently.\n\n\"I know--I know,\" said Gertrude, walking restlessly about. \"I cling to\na persistent faith in my dream, too--but every time bad news comes it\nfails me. Then I tell myself 'mere coincidence'--'subconscious memory'\nand so forth.\"\n\n\"I do not see how any memory could remember a thing before it was ever\nsaid at all,\" persisted Susan, \"though of course I am not educated like\nyou and the doctor. I would rather not be, if it makes anything as\nsimple as that so hard to believe. But in any case we need not worry\nover Verdun, even if the Huns get it. Joffre says it has no military\nsignificance.\"\n\n\"That old sop of comfort has been served up too often already when\nreverses came,\" retorted Gertrude. \"It has lost its power to charm.\"\n\n\"Was there ever a battle like this in the world before?\" said Mr.\nMeredith, one evening in mid-April.\n\n\"It's such a titanic thing we can't grasp it,\" said the doctor. \"What\nwere the scraps of a few Homeric handfuls compared to this? The whole\nTrojan war might be fought around a Verdun fort and a newspaper\ncorrespondent would give it no more than a sentence. I am not in the\nconfidence of the occult powers\"--the doctor threw Gertrude a\ntwinkle--\"but I have a hunch that the fate of the whole war hangs on\nthe issue of Verdun. As Susan and Joffre say, it has no real military\nsignificance; but it has the tremendous significance of an Idea. If\nGermany wins there she will win the war. If she loses, the tide will\nset against her.\"\n\n\"Lose she will,\" said Mr. Meredith: emphatically. \"The Idea cannot be\nconquered. France is certainly very wonderful. It seems to me that in\nher I see the white form of civilization making a determined stand\nagainst the black powers of barbarism. I think our whole world realizes\nthis and that is why we all await the issue so breathlessly. It isn't\nmerely the question of a few forts changing hands or a few miles of\nblood-soaked ground lost and won.\"\n\n\"I wonder,\" said Gertrude dreamily, \"if some great blessing, great\nenough for the price, will be the meed of all our pain? Is the agony in\nwhich the world is shuddering the birth-pang of some wondrous new era?\nOr is it merely a futile\n\n struggle of ants\n In the gleam of a million million of suns?\n\nWe think very lightly, Mr. Meredith, of a calamity which destroys an\nant-hill and half its inhabitants. Does the Power that runs the\nuniverse think us of more importance than we think ants?\"\n\n\"You forget,\" said Mr. Meredith, with a flash of his dark eyes, \"that\nan infinite Power must be infinitely little as well as infinitely\ngreat. We are neither, therefore there are things too little as well as\ntoo great for us to apprehend. To the infinitely little an ant is of as\nmuch importance as a mastodon. We are witnessing the birth-pangs of a\nnew era--but it will be born a feeble, wailing life like everything\nelse. I am not one of those who expect a new heaven and a new earth as\nthe immediate result of this war. That is not the way God works. But\nwork He does, Miss Oliver, and in the end His purpose will be\nfulfilled.\"\n\n\"Sound and orthodox--sound and orthodox,\" muttered Susan approvingly in\nthe kitchen. Susan liked to see Miss Oliver sat upon by the minister\nnow and then. Susan was very fond of her but she thought Miss Oliver\nliked saying heretical things to ministers far too well, and deserved\nan occasional reminder that these matters were quite beyond her\nprovince.\n\nIn May Walter wrote home that he had been awarded a D.C. Medal. He did\nnot say what for, but the other boys took care that the Glen should\nknow the brave thing Walter had done. \"In any war but this,\" wrote\nJerry Meredith, \"it would have meant a V.C. But they can't make V.C.'s\nas common as the brave things done every day here.\"\n\n\"He should have had the V.C.,\" said Susan, and was very indignant over\nit. She was not quite sure who was to blame for his not getting it, but\nif it were General Haig she began for the first time to entertain\nserious doubts as to his fitness for being Commander-in-Chief.\n\nRilla was beside herself with delight. It was her dear Walter who had\ndone this thing--Walter, to whom someone had sent a white feather at\nRedmond--it was Walter who had dashed back from the safety of the\ntrench to drag in a wounded comrade who had fallen on No-man's-land.\nOh, she could see his white beautiful face and wonderful eyes as he did\nit! What a thing to be the sister of such a hero! And he hadn't thought\nit worth while writing about. His letter was full of other\nthings--little intimate things that they two had known and loved\ntogether in the dear old cloudless days of a century ago.\n\n\"I've been thinking of the daffodils in the garden at Ingleside,\" he\nwrote. \"By the time you get this they will be out, blowing there under\nthat lovely rosy sky. Are they really as bright and golden as ever,\nRilla? It seems to me that they must be dyed red with blood--like our\npoppies here. And every whisper of spring will be falling as a violet\nin Rainbow Valley.\n\n\"There is a young moon tonight--a slender, silver, lovely thing hanging\nover these pits of torment. Will you see it tonight over the maple\ngrove?\n\n\"I'm enclosing a little scrap of verse, Rilla. I wrote it one evening\nin my trench dug-out by the light of a bit of candle--or rather it came\nto me there--I didn't feel as if I were writing it--something seemed to\nuse me as an instrument. I've had that feeling once or twice before,\nbut very rarely and never so strongly as this time. That was why I sent\nit over to the London Spectator. It printed it and the copy came today.\nI hope you'll like it. It's the only poem I've written since I came\noverseas.\"\n\nThe poem was a short, poignant little thing. In a month it had carried\nWalter's name to every corner of the globe. Everywhere it was\ncopied--in metropolitan dailies and little village weeklies--in\nprofound reviews and \"agony columns,\" in Red Cross appeals and\nGovernment recruiting propaganda. Mothers and sisters wept over it,\nyoung lads thrilled to it, the whole great heart of humanity caught it\nup as an epitome of all the pain and hope and pity and purpose of the\nmighty conflict, crystallized in three brief immortal verses. A\nCanadian lad in the Flanders trenches had written the one great poem of\nthe war. \"The Piper,\" by Pte. Walter Blythe, was a classic from its\nfirst printing.\n\nRilla copied it in her diary at the beginning of an entry in which she\npoured out the story of the hard week that had just passed.\n\n\"It has been such a dreadful week,\" she wrote, \"and even though it is\nover and we know that it was all a mistake that does not seem to do\naway with the bruises left by it. And yet it has in some ways been a\nvery wonderful week and I have had some glimpses of things I never\nrealized before--of how fine and brave people can be even in the midst\nof horrible suffering. I am sure I could never be as splendid as Miss\nOliver was.\n\n\"Just a week ago today she had a letter from Mr. Grant's mother in\nCharlottetown. And it told her that a cable had just come saying that\nMajor Robert Grant had been killed in action a few days before.\n\n\"Oh, poor Gertrude! At first she was crushed. Then after just a day she\npulled herself together and went back to her school. She did not cry--I\nnever saw her shed a tear--but oh, her face and her eyes!\n\n\"'I must go on with my work,' she said. 'That is my duty just now.'\n\n\"I could never have risen to such a height.\n\n\"She never spoke bitterly except once, when Susan said something about\nspring being here at last, and Gertrude said,\n\n\"'Can the spring really come this year?'\n\n\"Then she laughed--such a dreadful little laugh, just as one might\nlaugh in the face of death, I think, and said,\n\n\"'Observe my egotism. Because I, Gertrude Oliver, have lost a friend,\nit is incredible that the spring can come as usual. The spring does not\nfail because of the million agonies of others--but for mine--oh, can\nthe universe go on?'\n\n\"'Don't feel bitter with yourself, dear,' mother said gently. 'It is a\nvery natural thing to feel as if things couldn't go on just the same\nwhen some great blow has changed the world for us. We all feel like\nthat.'\n\n\"Then that horrid old Cousin Sophia of Susan's piped up. She was\nsitting there, knitting and croaking like an old 'raven of bode and\nwoe' as Walter used to call her.\n\n\"'You ain't as bad off as some, Miss Oliver,' she said, 'and you\nshouldn't take it so hard. There's some as has lost their husbands;\nthat's a hard blow; and there's some as has lost their sons. You\nhaven't lost either husband or son.'\n\n\"'No,' said Gertrude, more bitterly still. 'It's true I haven't lost a\nhusband--I have only lost the man who would have been my husband. I\nhave lost no son--only the sons and daughters who might have been born\nto me--who will never be born to me now.'\n\n\"'It isn't ladylike to talk like that,' said Cousin Sophia in a shocked\ntone; and then Gertrude laughed right out, so wildly that Cousin Sophia\nwas really frightened. And when poor tortured Gertrude, unable to\nendure it any longer, hurried out of the room, Cousin Sophia asked\nmother if the blow hadn't affected Miss Oliver's mind.\n\n\"'I suffered the loss of two good kind partners,' she said, 'but it did\nnot affect me like that.'\n\n\"I should think it wouldn't! Those poor men must have been thankful to\ndie.\n\n\"I heard Gertrude walking up and down her room most of the night. She\nwalked like that every night. But never so long as that night. And once\nI heard her give a dreadful sudden little cry as if she had been\nstabbed. I couldn't sleep for suffering with her; and I couldn't help\nher. I thought the night would never end. But it did; and then 'joy\ncame in the morning' as the Bible says. Only it didn't come exactly in\nthe morning but well along in the afternoon. The telephone rang and I\nanswered it. It was old Mrs. Grant speaking from Charlottetown, and her\nnews was that it was all a mistake--Robert wasn't killed at all; he had\nonly been slightly wounded in the arm and was safe in the hospital out\nof harm's way for a time anyhow. They hadn't learned yet how the\nmistake had happened but supposed there must have been another Robert\nGrant.\n\n\"I hung up the telephone and flew to Rainbow Valley. I'm sure I did\nfly--I can't remember my feet ever touching the ground. I met Gertrude\non her way home from school in the glade of spruces where we used to\nplay, and I just gasped out the news to her. I ought to have had more\nsense, of course. But I was so crazy with joy and excitement that I\nnever stopped to think. Gertrude just dropped there among the golden\nyoung ferns as if she had been shot. The fright it gave me ought to\nmake me sensible--in this respect at least--for the rest of my life. I\nthought I had killed her--I remembered that her mother had died very\nsuddenly from heart failure when quite a young woman. It seemed years\nto me before I discovered that her heart was still beating. A pretty\ntime I had! I never saw anybody faint before, and I knew there was\nnobody up at the house to help, because everybody else had gone to the\nstation to meet Di and Nan coming home from Redmond. But I\nknew--theoretically--how people in a faint should be treated, and now I\nknow it practically. Luckily the brook was handy, and after I had\nworked frantically over her for a while Gertrude came back to life. She\nnever said one word about my news and I didn't dare to refer to it\nagain. I helped her walk up through the maple grove and up to her room,\nand then she said, 'Rob--is--living,' as if the words were torn out of\nher, and flung herself on her bed and cried and cried and cried. I\nnever saw anyone cry so before. All the tears that she hadn't shed all\nthat week came then. She cried most of last night, I think, but her\nface this morning looked as if she had seen a vision of some kind, and\nwe were all so happy that we were almost afraid.\n\n\"Di and Nan are home for a couple of weeks. Then they go back to Red\nCross work in the training camp at Kingsport. I envy them. Father says\nI'm doing just as good work here, with Jims and my Junior Reds. But it\nlacks the romance theirs must have.\n\n\"Kut has fallen. It was almost a relief when it did fall, we had been\ndreading it so long. It crushed us flat for a day and then we picked up\nand put it behind us. Cousin Sophia was as gloomy as usual and came\nover and groaned that the British were losing everywhere.\n\n\"'They're good losers,' said Susan grimly. 'When they lose a thing they\nkeep on looking till they find it again! Anyhow, my king and country\nneed me now to cut potato sets for the back garden, so get you a knife\nand help me, Sophia Crawford. It will divert your thoughts and keep you\nfrom worrying over a campaign that you are not called upon to run.'\n\n\"Susan is an old brick, and the way she flattens out poor Cousin Sophia\nis beautiful to behold.\n\n\"As for Verdun, the battle goes on and on, and we see-saw between hope\nand fear. But I know that strange dream of Miss Oliver's foretold the\nvictory of France. 'They shall not pass.'\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nNORMAN DOUGLAS SPEAKS OUT IN MEETING\n\n\"Where are you wandering, Anne o' mine?\" asked the doctor, who even\nyet, after twenty-four years of marriage, occasionally addressed his\nwife thus when nobody was about. Anne was sitting on the veranda steps,\ngazing absently over the wonderful bridal world of spring blossom,\nBeyond the white orchard was a copse of dark young firs and creamy wild\ncherries, where the robins were whistling madly; for it was evening and\nthe fire of early stars was burning over the maple grove.\n\nAnne came back with a little sigh.\n\n\"I was just taking relief from intolerable realities in a dream,\nGilbert--a dream that all our children were home again--and all small\nagain--playing in Rainbow Valley. It is always so silent now--but I was\nimagining I heard clear voices and gay, childish sounds coming up as I\nused to. I could hear Jem's whistle and Walter's yodel, and the twins'\nlaughter, and for just a few blessed minutes I forgot about the guns on\nthe Western front, and had a little false, sweet happiness.\"\n\nThe doctor did not answer. Sometimes his work tricked him into\nforgetting for a few moments the Western front, but not often. There\nwas a good deal of grey now in his still thick curls that had not been\nthere two years ago. Yet he smiled down into the starry eyes he\nloved--the eyes that had once been so full of laughter, and now seemed\nalways full of unshed tears.\n\nSusan wandered by with a hoe in her hand and her second best bonnet on\nher head.\n\n\"I have just finished reading a piece in the Enterprise which told of a\ncouple being married in an aeroplane. Do you think it would be legal,\ndoctor dear?\" she inquired anxiously.\n\n\"I think so,\" said the doctor gravely.\n\n\"Well,\" said Susan dubiously, \"it seems to me that a wedding is too\nsolemn for anything so giddy as an aeroplane. But nothing is the same\nas it used to be. Well, it is half an hour yet before prayer-meeting\ntime, so I am going around to the kitchen garden to have a little\nevening hate with the weeds. But all the time I am strafing them I will\nbe thinking about this new worry in the Trentino. I do not like this\nAustrian caper, Mrs. Dr. dear.\"\n\n\"Nor I,\" said Mrs. Blythe ruefully. \"All the forenoon I preserved\nrhubarb with my hands and waited for the war news with my soul. When it\ncame I shrivelled. Well, I suppose I must go and get ready for the\nprayer-meeting, too.\"\n\nEvery village has its own little unwritten history, handed down from\nlip to lip through the generations, of tragic, comic, and dramatic\nevents. They are told at weddings and festivals, and rehearsed around\nwinter firesides. And in these oral annals of Glen St. Mary the tale of\nthe union prayer-meeting held that night in the Methodist Church was\ndestined to fill an imperishable place.\n\nThe union prayer-meeting was Mr. Arnold's idea. The county battalion,\nwhich had been training all winter in Charlottetown, was to leave\nshortly for overseas. The Four Winds Harbour boys belonging to it from\nthe Glen and over-harbour and Harbour Head and Upper Glen were all home\non their last leave, and Mr. Arnold thought, properly enough, that it\nwould be a fitting thing to hold a union prayer-meeting for them before\nthey went away. Mr. Meredith having agreed, the meeting was announced\nto be held in the Methodist Church. Glen prayer-meetings were not apt\nto be too well attended, but on this particular evening the Methodist\nChurch was crowded. Everybody who could go was there. Even Miss\nCornelia came--and it was the first time in her life that Miss Cornelia\nhad ever set foot inside a Methodist Church. It took no less than a\nworld conflict to bring that about.\n\n\"I used to hate Methodists,\" said Miss Cornelia calmly, when her\nhusband expressed surprise over her going, \"but I don't hate them now.\nThere is no sense in hating Methodists when there is a Kaiser or a\nHindenburg in the world.\"\n\nSo Miss Cornelia went. Norman Douglas and his wife went too. And\nWhiskers-on-the-moon strutted up the aisle to a front pew, as if he\nfully realized what a distinction he conferred upon the building.\nPeople were somewhat surprised that he should be there, since he\nusually avoided all assemblages connected in any way with the war. But\nMr. Meredith had said that he hoped his session would be well\nrepresented, and Mr. Pryor had evidently taken the request to heart. He\nwore his best black suit and white tie, his thick, tight, iron-grey\ncurls were neatly arranged, and his broad, red round face looked, as\nSusan most uncharitably thought, more \"sanctimonious\" than ever.\n\n\"The minute I saw that man coming into the Church, looking like that, I\nfelt that mischief was brewing, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" she said afterwards.\n\"What form it would take I could not tell, but I knew from face of him\nthat he had come there for no good.\"\n\nThe prayer-meeting opened conventionally and continued quietly. Mr.\nMeredith spoke first with his usual eloquence and feeling. Mr. Arnold\nfollowed with an address which even Miss Cornelia had to confess was\nirreproachable in taste and subject-matter.\n\nAnd then Mr. Arnold asked Mr. Pryor to lead in prayer.\n\nMiss Cornelia had always averred that Mr. Arnold had no gumption. Miss\nCornelia was not apt to err on the side of charity in her judgment of\nMethodist ministers, but in this case she did not greatly overshoot the\nmark. The Rev. Mr. Arnold certainly did not have much of that\ndesirable, indefinable quality known as gumption, or he would never\nhave asked Whiskers-on-the-moon to lead in prayer at a khaki\nprayer-meeting. He thought he was returning the compliment to Mr.\nMeredith, who, at the conclusion of his address, had asked a Methodist\ndeacon to lead.\n\nSome people expected Mr. Pryor to refuse grumpily--and that would have\nmade enough scandal. But Mr. Pryor bounded briskly to his feet,\nunctuously said, \"Let us pray,\" and forthwith prayed. In a sonorous\nvoice which penetrated to every corner of the crowded building Mr.\nPryor poured forth a flood of fluent words, and was well on in his\nprayer before his dazed and horrified audience awakened to the fact\nthat they were listening to a pacifist appeal of the rankest sort. Mr.\nPryor had at least the courage of his convictions; or perhaps, as\npeople afterwards said, he thought he was safe in a church and that it\nwas an excellent chance to air certain opinions he dared not voice\nelsewhere, for fear of being mobbed. He prayed that the unholy war\nmight cease--that the deluded armies being driven to slaughter on the\nWestern front might have their eyes opened to their iniquity and repent\nwhile yet there was time--that the poor young men present in khaki, who\nhad been hounded into a path of murder and militarism, should yet be\nrescued--\n\nMr. Pryor had got this far without let or hindrance; and so paralysed\nwere his hearers, and so deeply imbued with their born-and-bred\nconviction that no disturbance must ever be made in a church, no matter\nwhat the provocation, that it seemed likely that he would continue\nunchecked to the end. But one man at least in that audience was not\nhampered by inherited or acquired reverence for the sacred edifice.\nNorman Douglas was, as Susan had often vowed crisply, nothing more or\nless than a \"pagan.\" But he was a rampantly patriotic pagan, and when\nthe significance of what Mr. Pryor was saying fully dawned on him,\nNorman Douglas suddenly went berserk. With a positive roar he bounded\nto his feet in his side pew, facing the audience, and shouted in tones\nof thunder:\n\n\"Stop--stop--STOP that abominable prayer! What an abominable prayer!\"\n\nEvery head in the church flew up. A boy in khaki at the back gave a\nfaint cheer. Mr. Meredith raised a deprecating hand, but Norman was\npast caring for anything like that. Eluding his wife's restraining\ngrasp, he gave one mad spring over the front of the pew and caught the\nunfortunate Whiskers-on-the-moon by his coat collar. Mr. Pryor had not\n\"stopped\" when so bidden, but he stopped now, perforce, for Norman, his\nlong red beard literally bristling with fury, was shaking him until his\nbones fairly rattled, and punctuating his shakes with a lurid\nassortment of abusive epithets.\n\n\"You blatant beast!\"--shake--\"You malignant carrion\"--shake--\"You\npig-headed varmint!\"--shake--\"you putrid pup\"--shake--\"you pestilential\nparasite\"--shake--\"you--Hunnish scum\"--shake--\"you indecent\nreptile--you--you--\" Norman choked for a moment. Everybody believed\nthat the next thing he would say, church or no church, would be\nsomething that would have to be spelt with asterisks; but at that\nmoment Norman encountered his wife's eye and he fell back with a thud\non Holy Writ. \"You whited sepulchre!\" he bellowed, with a final shake,\nand cast Whiskers-on-the-moon from him with a vigour which impelled\nthat unhappy pacifist to the very verge of the choir entrance door. Mr.\nPryor's once ruddy face was ashen. But he turned at bay. \"I'll have the\nlaw on you for this,\" he gasped.\n\n\"Do--do,\" roared Norman, making another rush. But Mr. Pryor was gone.\nHe had no desire to fall a second time into the hands of an avenging\nmilitarist. Norman turned to the platform for one graceless, triumphant\nmoment.\n\n\"Don't look so flabbergasted, parsons,\" he boomed. \"You couldn't do\nit--nobody would expect it of the cloth--but somebody had to do it. You\nknow you're glad I threw him out--he couldn't be let go on yammering\nand yodelling and yawping sedition and treason. Sedition and\ntreason--somebody had to deal with it. I was born for this hour--I've\nhad my innings in church at last. I can sit quiet for another sixty\nyears now! Go ahead with your meeting, parsons. I reckon you won't be\ntroubled with any more pacifist prayers.\"\n\nBut the spirit of devotion and reverence had fled. Both ministers\nrealized it and realized that the only thing to do was to close the\nmeeting quietly and let the excited people go. Mr. Meredith addressed a\nfew earnest words to the boys in khaki--which probably saved Mr.\nPryor's windows from a second onslaught--and Mr. Arnold pronounced an\nincongruous benediction, at least he felt it was incongruous, for he\ncould not at once banish from his memory the sight of gigantic Norman\nDouglas shaking the fat, pompous little Whiskers-on-the-moon as a huge\nmastiff might shake an overgrown puppy. And he knew that the same\npicture was in everybody's mind. Altogether the union prayer-meeting\ncould hardly be called an unqualified success. But it was remembered in\nGlen St. Mary when scores of orthodox and undisturbed assemblies were\ntotally forgotten.\n\n\"You will never, no, never, Mrs. Dr. dear, hear me call Norman Douglas\na pagan again,\" said Susan when she reached home. \"If Ellen Douglas is\nnot a proud woman this night she should be.\"\n\n\"Norman Douglas did a wholly indefensible thing,\" said the doctor.\n\"Pryor should have been let severely alone until the meeting was over.\nThen later on, his own minister and session should deal with him. That\nwould have been the proper procedure. Norman's performance was utterly\nimproper and scandalous and outrageous; but, by George,\"--the doctor\nthrew back his head and chuckled, \"by George, Anne-girl, it was\nsatisfying.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\n\"LOVE AFFAIRS ARE HORRIBLE\"\n\nIngleside\n 20th June 1916\n\n\"We have been so busy, and day after day has brought such exciting\nnews, good and bad, that I haven't had time and composure to write in\nmy diary for weeks. I like to keep it up regularly, for father says a\ndiary of the years of the war should be a very interesting thing to\nhand down to one's children. The trouble is, I like to write a few\npersonal things in this blessed old book that might not be exactly what\nI'd want my children to read. I feel that I shall be a far greater\nstickler for propriety in regard to them than I am for myself!\n\n\"The first week in June was another dreadful one. The Austrians seemed\njust on the point of overrunning Italy: and then came the first awful\nnews of the Battle of Jutland, which the Germans claimed as a great\nvictory. Susan was the only one who carried on. 'You need never tell me\nthat the Kaiser has defeated the British Navy,' she said, with a\ncontemptuous sniff. 'It is all a German lie and that you may tie to.'\nAnd when a couple of days later we found out that she was right and\nthat it had been a British victory instead of a British defeat, we had\nto put up with a great many 'I told you so's,' but we endured them very\ncomfortably.\n\n\"It took Kitchener's death to finish Susan. For the first time I saw\nher down and out. We all felt the shock of it but Susan plumbed the\ndepths of despair. The news came at night by 'phone but Susan wouldn't\nbelieve it until she saw the Enterprise headline the next day. She did\nnot cry or faint or go into hysterics; but she forgot to put salt in\nthe soup, and that is something Susan never did in my recollection.\nMother and Miss Oliver and I cried but Susan looked at us in stony\nsarcasm and said, 'The Kaiser and his six sons are all alive and\nthriving. So the world is not left wholly desolate. Why cry, Mrs. Dr.\ndear?' Susan continued in this stony, hopeless condition for\ntwenty-four hours, and then Cousin Sophia appeared and began to condole\nwith her.\n\n\"'This is terrible news, ain't it, Susan? We might as well prepare for\nthe worst for it is bound to come. You said once--and well do I\nremember the words, Susan Baker--that you had complete confidence in\nGod and Kitchener. Ah well, Susan Baker, there is only God left now.'\n\n\"Whereat Cousin Sophia put her handkerchief to her eyes pathetically as\nif the world were indeed in terrible straits. As for Susan, Cousin\nSophia was the salvation of her. She came to life with a jerk.\n\n\"'Sophia Crawford, hold your peace!' she said sternly. 'You may be an\nidiot but you need not be an irreverent idiot. It is no more than\ndecent to be weeping and wailing because the Almighty is the sole stay\nof the Allies now. As for Kitchener, his death is a great loss and I do\nnot dispute it. But the outcome of this war does not depend on one\nman's life and now that the Russians are coming on again you will soon\nsee a change for the better.'\n\n\"Susan said this so energetically that she convinced herself and\ncheered up immediately. But Cousin Sophia shook her head.\n\n\"'Albert's wife wants to call the baby after Brusiloff,' she said, 'but\nI told her to wait and see what becomes of him first. Them Russians has\nsuch a habit of petering out.'\n\n\"The Russians are doing splendidly, however, and they have saved Italy.\nBut even when the daily news of their sweeping advance comes we don't\nfeel like running up the flag as we used to do. As Gertrude says,\nVerdun has slain all exultation. We would all feel more like rejoicing\nif the victories were on the western front. 'When will the British\nstrike?' Gertrude sighed this morning. 'We have waited so long--so\nlong.'\n\n\"Our greatest local event in recent weeks was the route march the\ncounty battalion made through the county before it left for overseas.\nThey marched from Charlottetown to Lowbridge, then round the Harbour\nHead and through the Upper Glen and so down to the St. Mary station.\nEverybody turned out to see them, except old Aunt Fannie Clow, who is\nbedridden and Mr. Pryor, who hadn't been seen out even in church since\nthe night of the Union Prayer Meeting the previous week.\n\n\"It was wonderful and heartbreaking to see that battalion marching\npast. There were young men and middle-aged men in it. There was Laurie\nMcAllister from over-harbour who is only sixteen but swore he was\neighteen, so that he could enlist; and there was Angus Mackenzie, from\nthe Upper Glen who is fifty-five if he is a day and swore he was\nforty-four. There were two South African veterans from Lowbridge, and\nthe three eighteen-year-old Baxter triplets from Harbour Head.\nEverybody cheered as they went by, and they cheered Foster Booth, who\nis forty, walking side by side with his son Charley who is twenty.\nCharley's mother died when he was born, and when Charley enlisted\nFoster said he'd never yet let Charley go anywhere he daren't go\nhimself, and he didn't mean to begin with the Flanders trenches. At the\nstation Dog Monday nearly went out of his head. He tore about and sent\nmessages to Jem by them all. Mr. Meredith read an address and Reta\nCrawford recited 'The Piper.' The soldiers cheered her like mad and\ncried 'We'll follow--we'll follow--we won't break faith,' and I felt so\nproud to think that it was my dear brother who had written such a\nwonderful, heart-stirring thing. And then I looked at the khaki ranks\nand wondered if those tall fellows in uniform could be the boys I've\nlaughed with and played with and danced with and teased all my life.\nSomething seems to have touched them and set them apart. They have\nheard the Piper's call.\n\n\"Fred Arnold was in the battalion and I felt dreadfully about him, for\nI realized that it was because of me that he was going away with such a\nsorrowful expression. I couldn't help it but I felt as badly as if I\ncould.\n\n\"The last evening of his leave Fred came up to Ingleside and told me he\nloved me and asked me if I would promise to marry him some day, if he\never came back. He was desperately in earnest and I felt more wretched\nthan I ever did in my life. I couldn't promise him that--why, even if\nthere was no question of Ken, I don't care for Fred that way and never\ncould--but it seemed so cruel and heartless to send him away to the\nfront without any hope of comfort. I cried like a baby; and yet--oh, I\nam afraid that there must be something incurably frivolous about me,\nbecause, right in the middle of it all, with me crying and Fred looking\nso wild and tragic, the thought popped into my head that it would be an\nunendurable thing to see that nose across from me at the breakfast\ntable every morning of my life. There, that is one of the entries I\nwouldn't want my descendants to read in this journal. But it is the\nhumiliating truth; and perhaps it's just as well that thought did come\nor I might have been tricked by pity and remorse into giving him some\nrash assurance. If Fred's nose were as handsome as his eyes and mouth\nsome such thing might have happened. And then what an unthinkable\npredicament I should have been in!\n\n\"When poor Fred became convinced that I couldn't promise him, he\nbehaved beautifully--though that rather made things worse. If he had\nbeen nasty about it I wouldn't have felt so heartbroken and\nremorseful--though why I should feel remorseful I don't know, for I\nnever encouraged Fred to think I cared a bit about him. Yet feel\nremorseful I did--and do. If Fred Arnold never comes back from\noverseas, this will haunt me all my life.\n\n\"Then Fred said if he couldn't take my love with him to the trenches at\nleast he wanted to feel that he had my friendship, and would I kiss him\njust once in good-bye before he went--perhaps for ever?\n\n\"I don't know how I could ever had imagined that love affairs were\ndelightful, interesting things. They are horrible. I couldn't even give\npoor heartbroken Fred one little kiss, because of my promise to Ken. It\nseemed so brutal. I had to tell Fred that of course he would have my\nfriendship, but that I couldn't kiss him because I had promised\nsomebody else I wouldn't.\n\n\"He said, 'It is--is it--Ken Ford?'\n\n\"I nodded. It seemed dreadful to have to tell it--it was such a sacred\nlittle secret just between me and Ken.\n\n\"When Fred went away I came up here to my room and cried so long and so\nbitterly that mother came up and insisted on knowing what was the\nmatter. I told her. She listened to my tale with an expression that\nclearly said, 'Can it be possible that anyone has been wanting to marry\nthis baby?' But she was so nice and understanding and sympathetic, oh,\njust so race-of-Josephy--that I felt indescribably comforted. Mothers\nare the dearest things.\n\n\"'But oh, mother,' I sobbed, 'he wanted me to kiss him good-bye--and I\ncouldn't--and that hurt me worse than all the rest.'\n\n\"'Well, why didn't you kiss him?' asked mother coolly. 'Considering the\ncircumstances, I think you might have.'\n\n\"'But I couldn't, mother--I promised Ken when he went away that I\nwouldn't kiss anybody else until he came back.'\n\n\"This was another high explosive for poor mother. She exclaimed, with\nthe queerest little catch in her voice, 'Rilla, are you engaged to\nKenneth Ford?'\n\n\"'I--don't--know,' I sobbed.\n\n\"'You--don't--know?' repeated mother.\n\n\"Then I had to tell her the whole story, too; and every time I tell it\nit seems sillier and sillier to imagine that Ken meant anything\nserious. I felt idiotic and ashamed by the time I got through.\n\n\"Mother sat a little while in silence. Then she came over, sat down\nbeside me, and took me in her arms.\n\n\"'Don't cry, dear little Rilla-my-Rilla. You have nothing to reproach\nyourself with in regard to Fred; and if Leslie West's son asked you to\nkeep your lips for him, I think you may consider yourself engaged to\nhim. But--oh, my baby--my last little baby--I have lost you--the war\nhas made a woman of you too soon.'\n\n\"I shall never be too much of a woman to find comfort in mother's hugs.\nNevertheless, when I saw Fred marching by two days later in the parade,\nmy heart ached unbearably.\n\n\"But I'm glad mother thinks I'm really engaged to Ken!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nLITTLE DOG MONDAY KNOWS\n\n\"It is two years tonight since the dance at the light, when Jack\nElliott brought us news of the war. Do you remember, Miss Oliver?\"\n\nCousin Sophia answered for Miss Oliver. \"Oh, indeed, Rilla, I remember\nthat evening only too well, and you a-prancing down here to show off\nyour party clothes. Didn't I warn you that we could not tell what was\nbefore us? Little did you think that night what was before you.\"\n\n\"Little did any of us think that,\" said Susan sharply, \"not being\ngifted with the power of prophecy. It does not require any great\nforesight, Sophia Crawford, to tell a body that she will have some\ntrouble before her life is over. I could do as much myself.\"\n\n\"We all thought the war would be over in a few months then,\" said Rilla\nwistfully. \"When I look back it seems so ridiculous that we ever could\nhave supposed it.\"\n\n\"And now, two years later, it is no nearer the end than it was then,\"\nsaid Miss Oliver gloomily.\n\nSusan clicked her knitting-needles briskly.\n\n\"Now, Miss Oliver, dear, you know that is not a reasonable remark. You\nknow we are just two years nearer the end, whenever the end is\nappointed to be.\"\n\n\"Albert read in a Montreal paper today that a war expert gives it as\nhis opinion that it will last five years more,\" was Cousin Sophia's\ncheerful contribution.\n\n\"It can't,\" cried Rilla; then she added with a sigh, \"Two years ago we\nwould have said 'It can't last two years.' But five more years of this!\"\n\n\"If Rumania comes in, as I have strong hopes now of her doing, you will\nsee the end in five months instead of five years,\" said Susan.\n\n\"I've no faith in furriners,\" sighed Cousin Sophia.\n\n\"The French are foreigners,\" retorted Susan, \"and look at Verdun. And\nthink of all the Somme victories this blessed summer. The Big Push is\non and the Russians are still going well. Why, General Haig says that\nthe German officers he has captured admit that they have lost the war.\"\n\n\"You can't believe a word the Germans say,\" protested Cousin Sophia.\n\"There is no sense in believing a thing just because you'd like to\nbelieve it, Susan Baker. The British have lost millions of men at the\nSomme and how far have they got? Look facts in the face, Susan Baker,\nlook facts in the face.\"\n\n\"They are wearing the Germans out and so long as that happens it does\nnot matter whether it is done a few miles east or a few miles west. I\nam not,\" admitted Susan in tremendous humility, \"I am not a military\nexpert, Sophia Crawford, but even I can see that, and so could you if\nyou were not determined to take a gloomy view of everything. The Huns\nhave not got all the cleverness in the world. Have you not heard the\nstory of Alistair MacCallum's son Roderick, from the Upper Glen? He is\na prisoner in Germany and his mother got a letter from him last week.\nHe wrote that he was being very kindly treated and that all the\nprisoners had plenty of food and so on, till you would have supposed\neverything was lovely. But when he signed his name, right in between\nRoderick and MacCallum, he wrote two Gaelic words that meant 'all lies'\nand the German censor did not understand Gaelic and thought it was all\npart of Roddy's name. So he let it pass, never dreaming how he was\ndiddled. Well, I am going to leave the war to Haig for the rest of the\nday and make a frosting for my chocolate cake. And when it is made I\nshall put it on the top shelf. The last one I made I left it on the\nlower shelf and little Kitchener sneaked in and clawed all the icing\noff and ate it. We had company for tea that night and when I went to\nget my cake what a sight did I behold!\"\n\n\"Has that pore orphan's father never been heerd from yet?\" asked Cousin\nSophia.\n\n\"Yes, I had a letter from him in July,\" said Rilla. \"He said that when\nhe got word of his wife's death and of my taking the baby--Mr. Meredith\nwrote him, you know--he wrote right away, but as he never got any\nanswer he had begun to think his letter must have been lost.\"\n\n\"It took him two years to begin to think it,\" said Susan scornfully.\n\"Some people think very slow. Jim Anderson has not got a scratch, for\nall he has been two years in the trenches. A fool for luck, as the old\nproverb says.\"\n\n\"He wrote very nicely about Jims and said he'd like to see him,\" said\nRilla. \"So I wrote and told him all about the wee man, and sent him\nsnapshots. Jims will be two years old next week and he is a perfect\nduck.\"\n\n\"You didn't used to be very fond of babies,\" said Cousin Sophia.\n\n\"I'm not a bit fonder of babies in the abstract than ever I was,\" said\nRilla, frankly. \"But I do love Jims, and I'm afraid I wasn't really\nhalf as glad as I should have been when Jim Anderson's letter proved\nthat he was safe and sound.\"\n\n\"You wasn't hoping the man would be killed!\" cried Cousin Sophia in\nhorrified accents.\n\n\"No--no--no! I just hoped he would go on forgetting about Jims, Mrs.\nCrawford.\"\n\n\"And then your pa would have the expense of raising him,\" said Cousin\nSophia reprovingly. \"You young creeturs are terrible thoughtless.\"\n\nJims himself ran in at this juncture, so rosy and curly and kissable,\nthat he extorted a qualified compliment even from Cousin Sophia.\n\n\"He's a reel healthy-looking child now, though mebbee his colour is a\nmite too high--sorter consumptive looking, as you might say. I never\nthought you'd raise him when I saw him the day after you brung him\nhome. I reely did not think it was in you and I told Albert's wife so\nwhen I got home. Albert's wife says, says she, 'There's more in Rilla\nBlythe than you'd think for, Aunt Sophia.' Them was her very words.\n'More in Rilla Blythe than you'd think for.' Albert's wife always had a\ngood opinion of you.\"\n\nCousin Sophia sighed, as if to imply that Albert's wife stood alone in\nthis against the world. But Cousin Sophia really did not mean that. She\nwas quite fond of Rilla in her own melancholy way; but young creeturs\nhad to be kept down. If they were not kept down society would be\ndemoralized.\n\n\"Do you remember your walk home from the light two years ago tonight?\"\nwhispered Gertrude Oliver to Rilla, teasingly.\n\n\"I should think I do,\" smiled Rilla; and then her smile grew dreamy and\nabsent; she was remembering something else--that hour with Kenneth on\nthe sandshore. Where would Ken be tonight? And Jem and Jerry and Walter\nand all the other boys who had danced and moonlighted on the old Four\nWinds Point that evening of mirth and laughter--their last joyous\nunclouded evening. In the filthy trenches of the Somme front, with the\nroar of the guns and the groans of stricken men for the music of Ned\nBurr's violin, and the flash of star shells for the silver sparkles on\nthe old blue gulf. Two of them were sleeping under the Flanders\npoppies--Alec Burr from the Upper Glen, and Clark Manley of Lowbridge.\nOthers were wounded in the hospitals. But so far nothing had touched\nthe manse and the Ingleside boys. They seemed to bear charmed lives.\nYet the suspense never grew any easier to bear as the weeks and months\nof war went by.\n\n\"It isn't as if it were some sort of fever to which you might conclude\nthey were immune when they hadn't taken it for two years,\" sighed\nRilla. \"The danger is just as great and just as real as it was the\nfirst day they went into the trenches. I know this, and it tortures me\nevery day. And yet I can't help hoping that since they've come this far\nunhurt they'll come through. Oh, Miss Oliver, what would it be like not\nto wake up in the morning feeling afraid of the news the day would\nbring? I can't picture such a state of things somehow. And two years\nago this morning I woke wondering what delightful gift the new day\nwould give me. These are the two years I thought would be filled with\nfun.\"\n\n\"Would you exchange them--now--for two years filled with fun?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Rilla slowly. \"I wouldn't. It's strange--isn't it?--They\nhave been two terrible years--and yet I have a queer feeling of\nthankfulness for them--as if they had brought me something very\nprecious, with all their pain. I wouldn't want to go back and be the\ngirl I was two years ago, not even if I could. Not that I think I've\nmade any wonderful progress--but I'm not quite the selfish, frivolous\nlittle doll I was then. I suppose I had a soul then, Miss Oliver--but I\ndidn't know it. I know it now--and that is worth a great deal--worth\nall the suffering of the past two years. And still\"--Rilla gave a\nlittle apologetic laugh, \"I don't want to suffer any more--not even for\nthe sake of more soul growth. At the end of two more years I might look\nback and be thankful for the development they had brought me, too; but\nI don't want it now.\"\n\n\"We never do,\" said Miss Oliver. \"That is why we are not left to choose\nour own means and measure of development, I suppose. No matter how much\nwe value what our lessons have brought us we don't want to go on with\nthe bitter schooling. Well, let us hope for the best, as Susan says;\nthings are really going well now and if Rumania lines up, the end may\ncome with a suddenness that will surprise us all.\"\n\nRumania did come in--and Susan remarked approvingly that its king and\nqueen were the finest looking royal couple she had seen pictures of. So\nthe summer passed away. Early in September word came that the Canadians\nhad been shifted to the Somme front and anxiety grew tenser and deeper.\nFor the first time Mrs. Blythe's spirit failed her a little, and as the\ndays of suspense wore on the doctor began to look gravely at her, and\nveto this or that special effort in Red Cross work.\n\n\"Oh, let me work--let me work, Gilbert,\" she entreated feverishly.\n\"While I'm working I don't think so much. If I'm idle I imagine\neverything--rest is only torture for me. My two boys are on the\nfrightful Somme front--and Shirley pores day and night over aviation\nliterature and says nothing. But I see the purpose growing in his eyes.\nNo, I cannot rest--don't ask it of me, Gilbert.\"\n\nBut the doctor was inexorable.\n\n\"I can't let you kill yourself, Anne-girl,\" he said. \"When the boys\ncome back I want a mother here to welcome them. Why, you're getting\ntransparent. It won't do--ask Susan there if it will do.\"\n\n\"Oh, if Susan and you are both banded together against me!\" said Anne\nhelplessly.\n\nOne day the glorious news came that the Canadians had taken Courcelette\nand Martenpuich, with many prisoners and guns. Susan ran up the flag\nand said it was plain to be seen that Haig knew what soldiers to pick\nfor a hard job. The others dared not feel exultant. Who knew what price\nhad been paid?\n\nRilla woke that morning when the dawn was beginning to break and went\nto her window to look out, her thick creamy eyelids heavy with sleep.\nJust at dawn the world looks as it never looks at any other time. The\nair was cold with dew and the orchard and grove and Rainbow Valley were\nfull of mystery and wonder. Over the eastern hill were golden deeps and\nsilvery-pink shallows. There was no wind, and Rilla heard distinctly a\ndog howling in a melancholy way down in the direction of the station.\nWas it Dog Monday? And if it were, why was he howling like that? Rilla\nshivered; the sound had something boding and grievous in it. She\nremembered that Miss Oliver said once, when they were coming home in\nthe darkness and heard a dog howl, \"When a dog cries like that the\nAngel of Death is passing.\" Rilla listened with a curdling fear at her\nheart. It was Dog Monday--she felt sure of it. Whose dirge was he\nhowling--to whose spirit was he sending that anguished greeting and\nfarewell?\n\nRilla went back to bed but she could not sleep. All day she watched and\nwaited in a dread of which she did not speak to anyone. She went down\nto see Dog Monday and the station-master said, \"That dog of yours\nhowled from midnight to sunrise something weird. I dunno what got into\nhim. I got up once and went out and hollered at him but he paid no\n'tention to me. He was sitting all alone in the moonlight out there at\nthe end of the platform, and every few minutes the poor lonely little\nbeggar'd lift his nose and howl as if his heart was breaking. He never\ndid it afore--always slept in his kennel real quiet and canny from\ntrain to train. But he sure had something on his mind last night.\"\n\nDog Monday was lying in his kennel. He wagged his tail and licked\nRilla's hand. But he would not touch the food she brought for him.\n\n\"I'm afraid he's sick,\" she said anxiously. She hated to go away and\nleave him. But no bad news came that day--nor the next--nor the next.\nRilla's fear lifted. Dog Monday howled no more and resumed his routine\nof train meeting and watching. When five days had passed the Ingleside\npeople began to feel that they might be cheerful again. Rilla dashed\nabout the kitchen helping Susan with the breakfast and singing so\nsweetly and clearly that Cousin Sophia across the road heard her and\ncroaked out to Mrs. Albert,\n\n\"'Sing before eating, cry before sleeping,' I've always heard.\"\n\nBut Rilla Blythe shed no tears before the nightfall. When her father,\nhis face grey and drawn and old, came to her that afternoon and told\nher that Walter had been killed in action at Courcelette she crumpled\nup in a pitiful little heap of merciful unconsciousness in his arms.\nNor did she waken to her pain for many hours.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\"AND SO, GOODNIGHT\"\n\nThe fierce flame of agony had burned itself out and the grey dust of\nits ashes was over all the world. Rilla's younger life recovered\nphysically sooner than her mother. For weeks Mrs. Blythe lay ill from\ngrief and shock. Rilla found it was possible to go on with existence,\nsince existence had still to be reckoned with. There was work to be\ndone, for Susan could not do all. For her mother's sake she had to put\non calmness and endurance as a garment in the day; but night after\nnight she lay in her bed, weeping the bitter rebellious tears of youth\nuntil at last tears were all wept out and the little patient ache that\nwas to be in her heart until she died took their place.\n\nShe clung to Miss Oliver, who knew what to say and what not to say. So\nfew people did. Kind, well-meaning callers and comforters gave Rilla\nsome terrible moments.\n\n\"You'll get over it in time,\" Mrs. William Reese said, cheerfully. Mrs.\nReese had three stalwart sons, not one of whom had gone to the front.\n\n\"It's such a blessing it was Walter who was taken and not Jem,\" said\nMiss Sarah Clow. \"Walter was a member of the church, and Jem wasn't.\nI've told Mr. Meredith many a time that he should have spoken seriously\nto Jem about it before he went away.\"\n\n\"Pore, pore Walter,\" sighed Mrs. Reese.\n\n\"Do not you come here calling him poor Walter,\" said Susan indignantly,\nappearing in the kitchen door, much to the relief of Rilla, who felt\nthat she could endure no more just then. \"He was not poor. He was\nricher than any of you. It is you who stay at home and will not let\nyour sons go who are poor--poor and naked and mean and small--pisen\npoor, and so are your sons, with all their prosperous farms and fat\ncattle and their souls no bigger than a flea's--if as big.\"\n\n\"I came here to comfort the afflicted and not to be insulted,\" said\nMrs. Reese, taking her departure, unregretted by anyone. Then the fire\nwent out of Susan and she retreated to her kitchen, laid her faithful\nold head on the table and wept bitterly for a time. Then she went to\nwork and ironed Jims's little rompers. Rilla scolded her gently for it\nwhen she herself came in to do it.\n\n\"I am not going to have you kill yourself working for any war-baby,\"\nSusan said obstinately.\n\n\"Oh, I wish I could just keep on working all the time, Susan,\" cried\npoor Rilla. \"And I wish I didn't have to go to sleep. It is hideous to\ngo to sleep and forget it for a little while, and wake up and have it\nall rush over me anew the next morning. Do people ever get used to\nthings like this, Susan? And oh, Susan, I can't get away from what Mrs.\nReese said. Did Walter suffer much--he was always so sensitive to pain.\nOh, Susan, if I knew that he didn't I think I could gather up a little\ncourage and strength.\"\n\nThis merciful knowledge was given to Rilla. A letter came from Walter's\ncommanding officer, telling them that he had been killed instantly by a\nbullet during a charge at Courcelette. The same day there was a letter\nfor Rilla from Walter himself.\n\nRilla carried it unopened to Rainbow Valley and read it there, in the\nspot where she had had her last talk with him. It is a strange thing to\nread a letter after the writer is dead--a bitter-sweet thing, in which\npain and comfort are strangely mingled. For the first time since the\nblow had fallen Rilla felt--a different thing from tremulous hope and\nfaith--that Walter, of the glorious gift and the splendid ideals, still\nlived, with just the same gift and just the same ideals. That could not\nbe destroyed--these could suffer no eclipse. The personality that had\nexpressed itself in that last letter, written on the eve of\nCourcelette, could not be snuffed out by a German bullet. It must carry\non, though the earthly link with things of earth were broken.\n\n\"We're going over the top tomorrow, Rilla-my-Rilla,\" wrote Walter. \"I\nwrote mother and Di yesterday, but somehow I feel as if I must write\nyou tonight. I hadn't intended to do any writing tonight--but I've got\nto. Do you remember old Mrs. Tom Crawford over-harbour, who was always\nsaying that it was 'laid on her' to do such and such a thing? Well,\nthat is just how I feel. It's 'laid on me' to write you tonight--you,\nsister and chum of mine. There are some things I want to say\nbefore--well, before tomorrow.\n\n\"You and Ingleside seem strangely near me tonight. It's the first time\nI've felt this since I came. Always home has seemed so far away--so\nhopelessly far away from this hideous welter of filth and blood. But\ntonight it is quite close to me--it seems to me I can almost see\nyou--hear you speak. And I can see the moonlight shining white and\nstill on the old hills of home. It has seemed to me ever since I came\nhere that it was impossible that there could be calm gentle nights and\nunshattered moonlight anywhere in the world. But tonight somehow, all\nthe beautiful things I have always loved seem to have become possible\nagain--and this is good, and makes me feel a deep, certain, exquisite\nhappiness. It must be autumn at home now--the harbour is a-dream and\nthe old Glen hills blue with haze, and Rainbow Valley a haunt of\ndelight with wild asters blowing all over it--our old\n\"farewell-summers.\" I always liked that name better than 'aster'--it\nwas a poem in itself.\n\n\"Rilla, you know I've always had premonitions. You remember the Pied\nPiper--but no, of course you wouldn't--you were too young. One evening\nlong ago when Nan and Di and Jem and the Merediths and I were together\nin Rainbow Valley I had a queer vision or presentiment--whatever you\nlike to call it. Rilla, I saw the Piper coming down the Valley with a\nshadowy host behind him. The others thought I was only pretending--but\nI saw him for just one moment. And Rilla, last night I saw him again. I\nwas doing sentry-go and I saw him marching across No-man's-land from\nour trenches to the German trenches--the same tall shadowy form, piping\nweirdly--and behind him followed boys in khaki. Rilla, I tell you I saw\nhim--it was no fancy--no illusion. I heard his music, and then--he was\ngone. But I had seen him--and I knew what it meant--I knew that I was\namong those who followed him.\n\n\"Rilla, the Piper will pipe me 'west' tomorrow. I feel sure of this.\nAnd Rilla, I'm not afraid. When you hear the news, remember that. I've\nwon my own freedom here--freedom from all fear. I shall never be afraid\nof anything again--not of death--nor of life, if after all, I am to go\non living. And life, I think, would be the harder of the two to\nface--for it could never be beautiful for me again. There would always\nbe such horrible things to remember--things that would make life ugly\nand painful always for me. I could never forget them. But whether it's\nlife or death, I'm not afraid, Rilla-my-Rilla, and I am not sorry that\nI came. I'm satisfied. I'll never write the poems I once dreamed of\nwriting--but I've helped to make Canada safe for the poets of the\nfuture--for the workers of the future--ay, and the dreamers, too--for\nif no man dreams, there will be nothing for the workers to fulfil--the\nfuture, not of Canada only but of the world--when the 'red rain' of\nLangemarck and Verdun shall have brought forth a golden harvest--not in\na year or two, as some foolishly think, but a generation later, when\nthe seed sown now shall have had time to germinate and grow. Yes, I'm\nglad I came, Rilla. It isn't only the fate of the little sea-born\nisland I love that is in the balance--nor of Canada nor of England.\nIt's the fate of mankind. That is what we're fighting for. And we shall\nwin--never for a moment doubt that, Rilla. For it isn't only the living\nwho are fighting--the dead are fighting too. Such an army cannot be\ndefeated.\n\n\"Is there laughter in your face yet, Rilla? I hope so. The world will\nneed laughter and courage more than ever in the years that will come\nnext. I don't want to preach--this isn't any time for it. But I just\nwant to say something that may help you over the worst when you hear\nthat I've gone 'west.' I've a premonition about you, Rilla, as well as\nabout myself. I think Ken will go back to you--and that there are long\nyears of happiness for you by-and-by. And you will tell your children\nof the Idea we fought and died for--teach them it must be lived for as\nwell as died for, else the price paid for it will have been given for\nnought. This will be part of your work, Rilla. And if you--all you\ngirls back in the homeland--do it, then we who don't come back will\nknow that you have not 'broken faith' with us.\n\n\"I meant to write to Una tonight, too, but I won't have time now. Read\nthis letter to her and tell her it's really meant for you both--you two\ndear, fine loyal girls. Tomorrow, when we go over the top--I'll think\nof you both--of your laughter, Rilla-my-Rilla, and the steadfastness in\nUna's blue eyes--somehow I see those eyes very plainly tonight, too.\nYes, you'll both keep faith--I'm sure of that--you and Una. And\nso--goodnight. We go over the top at dawn.\"\n\nRilla read her letter over many times. There was a new light on her\npale young face when she finally stood up, amid the asters Walter had\nloved, with the sunshine of autumn around her. For the moment at least,\nshe was lifted above pain and loneliness.\n\n\"I will keep faith, Walter,\" she said steadily. \"I will work--and\nteach--and learn--and laugh, yes, I will even laugh--through all my\nyears, because of you and because of what you gave when you followed\nthe call.\"\n\nRilla meant to keep Walter's letter as a a sacred treasure. But, seeing\nthe look on Una Meredith's face when Una had read it and held it back\nto her, she thought of something. Could she do it? Oh, no, she could\nnot give up Walter's letter--his last letter. Surely it was not\nselfishness to keep it. A copy would be such a soulless thing. But\nUna--Una had so little--and her eyes were the eyes of a woman stricken\nto the heart, who yet must not cry out or ask for sympathy.\n\n\"Una, would you like to have this letter--to keep?\" she asked slowly.\n\n\"Yes--if you can give it to me,\" Una said dully.\n\n\"Then--you may have it,\" said Rilla hurriedly.\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Una. It was all she said, but there was something in\nher voice which repaid Rilla for her bit of sacrifice.\n\nUna took the letter and when Rilla had gone she pressed it against her\nlonely lips. Una knew that love would never come into her life now--it\nwas buried for ever under the blood-stained soil \"Somewhere in France.\"\nNo one but herself--and perhaps Rilla--knew it--would ever know it. She\nhad no right in the eyes of her world to grieve. She must hide and bear\nher long pain as best she could--alone. But she, too, would keep faith.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nMARY IS JUST IN TIME\n\nThe autumn of 1916 was a bitter season for Ingleside. Mrs. Blythe's\nreturn to health was slow, and sorrow and loneliness were in all\nhearts. Every one tried to hide it from the others and \"carry on\"\ncheerfully. Rilla laughed a good deal. Nobody at Ingleside was deceived\nby her laughter; it came from her lips only, never from her heart. But\noutsiders said some people got over trouble very easily, and Irene\nHoward remarked that she was surprised to find how shallow Rilla Blythe\nreally was. \"Why, after all her pose of being so devoted to Walter, she\ndoesn't seem to mind his death at all. Nobody has ever seen her shed a\ntear or heard her mention his name. She has evidently quite forgotten\nhim. Poor fellow--you'd really think his family would feel it more. I\nspoke of him to Rilla at the last Junior Red meeting--of how fine and\nbrave and splendid he was--and I said life could never be just the same\nto me again, now that Walter had gone--we were such friends, you\nknow--why I was the very first person he told about having\nenlisted--and Rilla answered, as coolly and indifferently as if she\nwere speaking of an entire stranger, 'He was just one of many fine and\nsplendid boys who have given everything for their country.' Well, I\nwish I could take things as calmly--but I'm not made like that. I'm so\nsensitive--things hurt me terribly--I really never get over them. I\nasked Rilla right out why she didn't put on mourning for Walter. She\nsaid her mother didn't wish it. But every one is talking about it.\"\n\n\"Rilla doesn't wear colours--nothing but white,\" protested Betty Mead.\n\n\"White becomes her better than anything else,\" said Irene\nsignificantly. \"And we all know black doesn't suit her complexion at\nall. But of course I'm not saying that is the reason she doesn't wear\nit. Only, it's funny. If my brother had died I'd have gone into deep\nmourning. I wouldn't have had the heart for anything else. I confess\nI'm disappointed in Rilla Blythe.\"\n\n\"I am not, then,\" cried Betty Meade, loyally, \"I think Rilla is just a\nwonderful girl. A few years ago I admit I did think she was rather too\nvain and gigglesome; but now she is nothing of the sort. I don't think\nthere is a girl in the Glen who is so unselfish and plucky as Rilla, or\nwho has done her bit as thoroughly and patiently. Our Junior Red Cross\nwould have gone on the rocks a dozen times if it hadn't been for her\ntact and perseverance and enthusiasm--you know that perfectly well,\nIrene.\"\n\n\"Why, I am not running Rilla down,\" said Irene, opening her eyes\nwidely. \"It was only her lack of feeling I was criticizing. I suppose\nshe can't help it. Of course, she's a born manager--everyone knows\nthat. She's very fond of managing, too--and people like that are very\nnecessary I admit. So don't look at me as if I'd said something\nperfectly dreadful, Betty, please. I'm quite willing to agree that\nRilla Blythe is the embodiment of all the virtues, if that will please\nyou. And no doubt it is a virtue to be quite unmoved by things that\nwould crush most people.\"\n\nSome of Irene's remarks were reported to Rilla; but they did not hurt\nher as they would once have done. They didn't matter, that was all.\nLife was too big to leave room for pettiness. She had a pact to keep\nand a work to do; and through the long hard days and weeks of that\ndisastrous autumn she was faithful to her task. The war news was\nconsistently bad, for Germany marched from victory to victory over poor\nRumania. \"Foreigners--foreigners,\" Susan muttered dubiously. \"Russians\nor Rumanians or whatever they may be, they are foreigners and you\ncannot tie to them. But after Verdun I shall not give up hope. And can\nyou tell me, Mrs. Dr. dear, if the Dobruja is a river or a mountain\nrange, or a condition of the atmosphere?\"\n\nThe Presidential election in the United States came off in November,\nand Susan was red-hot over that--and quite apologetic for her\nexcitement.\n\n\"I never thought I would live to see the day when I would be interested\nin a Yankee election, Mrs. Dr. dear. It only goes to show we can never\nknow what we will come to in this world, and therefore we should not be\nproud.\"\n\nSusan stayed up late on the evening of the eleventh, ostensibly to\nfinish a pair of socks. But she 'phoned down to Carter Flagg's store at\nintervals, and when the first report came through that Hughes had been\nelected she stalked solemnly upstairs to Mrs. Blythe's room and\nannounced it in a thrilling whisper from the foot of the bed.\n\n\"I thought if you were not asleep you would be interested in knowing\nit. I believe it is for the best. Perhaps he will just fall to writing\nnotes, too, Mrs. Dr. dear, but I hope for better things. I never was\nvery partial to whiskers, but one cannot have everything.\"\n\nWhen news came in the morning that after all Wilson was re-elected,\nSusan tacked to catch another breeze of optimism.\n\n\"Well, better a fool you know than a fool you do not know, as the old\nproverb has it,\" she remarked cheerfully. \"Not that I hold Woodrow to\nbe a fool by any means, though by times you would not think he has the\nsense he was born with. But he is a good letter writer at least, and we\ndo not know if the Hughes man is even that. All things being considered\nI commend the Yankees. They have shown good sense and I do not mind\nadmitting it. Cousin Sophia wanted them to elect Roosevelt, and is much\ndisgruntled because they would not give him a chance. I had a hankering\nfor him myself, but we must believe that Providence over-rules these\nmatters and be satisfied--though what the Almighty means in this affair\nof Rumania I cannot fathom--saying it with all reverence.\"\n\nSusan fathomed it--or thought she did--when the Asquith ministry went\ndown and Lloyd George became Premier.\n\n\"Mrs. Dr. dear, Lloyd George is at the helm at last. I have been\npraying for this for many a day. Now we shall soon see a blessed\nchange. It took the Rumanian disaster to bring it about, no less, and\nthat is the meaning of it, though I could not see it before. There will\nbe no more shilly-shallying. I consider that the war is as good as won,\nand that I shall tie to, whether Bucharest falls or not.\"\n\nBucharest did fall--and Germany proposed peace negotiations. Whereat\nSusan scornfully turned a deaf ear and absolutely refused to listen to\nsuch proposals. When President Wilson sent his famous December peace\nnote Susan waxed violently sarcastic.\n\n\"Woodrow Wilson is going to make peace, I understand. First Henry Ford\nhad a try at it and now comes Wilson. But peace is not made with ink,\nWoodrow, and that you may tie to,\" said Susan, apostrophizing the\nunlucky President out of the kitchen window nearest the United States.\n\"Lloyd George's speech will tell the Kaiser what is what, and you may\nkeep your peace screeds at home and save postage.\"\n\n\"What a pity President Wilson can't hear you, Susan,\" said Rilla slyly.\n\n\"Indeed, Rilla dear, it is a pity that he has no one near him to give\nhim good advice, as it is clear he has not, in all those Democrats and\nRepublicans,\" retorted Susan. \"I do not know the difference between\nthem, for the politics of the Yankees is a puzzle I cannot solve, study\nit as I may. But as far as seeing through a grindstone goes, I am\nafraid--\" Susan shook her head dubiously, \"that they are all tarred\nwith the same brush.\"\n\n\"I am thankful Christmas is over,\" Rilla wrote in her diary during the\nlast week of a stormy December. \"We had dreaded it so--the first\nChristmas since Courcelette. But we had all the Merediths down for\ndinner and nobody tried to be gay or cheerful. We were all just quiet\nand friendly, and that helped. Then, too, I was so thankful that Jims\nhad got better--so thankful that I almost felt glad--almost but not\nquite. I wonder if I shall ever feel really glad over anything again.\nIt seems as if gladness were killed in me--shot down by the same bullet\nthat pierced Walter's heart. Perhaps some day a new kind of gladness\nwill be born in my soul--but the old kind will never live again.\n\n\"Winter set in awfully early this year. Ten days before Christmas we\nhad a big snowstorm--at least we thought it big at the time. As it\nhappened, it was only a prelude to the real performance. It was fine\nthe next day, and Ingleside and Rainbow Valley were wonderful, with the\ntrees all covered with snow, and big drifts everywhere, carved into the\nmost fantastic shapes by the chisel of the northeast wind. Father and\nmother went up to Avonlea. Father thought the change would do mother\ngood, and they wanted to see poor Aunt Diana, whose son Jock had been\nseriously wounded a short time before. They left Susan and me to keep\nhouse, and father expected to be back the next day. But he never got\nback for a week. That night it began to storm again, and it stormed\nunbrokenly for four days. It was the worst and longest storm that\nPrince Edward Island has known for years. Everything was\ndisorganized--the roads were completely choked up, the trains\nblockaded, and the telephone wires put entirely out of commission.\n\n\"And then Jims took ill.\n\n\"He had a little cold when father and mother went away, and he kept\ngetting worse for a couple of days, but it didn't occur to me that\nthere was danger of anything serious. I never even took his\ntemperature, and I can't forgive myself, because it was sheer\ncarelessness. The truth is I had slumped just then. Mother was away, so\nI let myself go. All at once I was tired of keeping up and pretending\nto be brave and cheerful, and I just gave up for a few days and spent\nmost of the time lying on my face on my bed, crying. I neglected\nJims--that is the hateful truth--I was cowardly and false to what I\npromised Walter--and if Jims had died I could never have forgiven\nmyself.\n\n\"Then, the third night after father and mother went away, Jims suddenly\ngot worse--oh, so much worse--all at once. Susan and I were all alone.\nGertrude had been at Lowbridge when the storm began and had never got\nback. At first we were not much alarmed. Jims has had several bouts of\ncroup and Susan and Morgan and I have always brought him through\nwithout much trouble. But it wasn't very long before we were dreadfully\nalarmed.\n\n\"'I never saw croup like this before,' said Susan.\n\n\"As for me, I knew, when it was too late, what kind of croup it was. I\nknew it was not the ordinary croup--'false croup' as doctors call\nit--but the 'true croup'--and I knew that it was a deadly and dangerous\nthing. And father was away and there was no doctor nearer than\nLowbridge--and we could not 'phone and neither horse nor man could get\nthrough the drifts that night.\n\n\"Gallant little Jims put up a good fight for his life,--Susan and I\ntried every remedy we could think of or find in father's books, but he\ncontinued to grow worse. It was heart-rending to see and hear him. He\ngasped so horribly for breath--the poor little soul--and his face\nturned a dreadful bluish colour and had such an agonized expression,\nand he kept struggling with his little hands, as if he were appealing\nto us to help him somehow. I found myself thinking that the boys who\nhad been gassed at the front must have looked like that, and the\nthought haunted me amid all my dread and misery over Jims. And all the\ntime the fatal membrane in his wee throat grew and thickened and he\ncouldn't get it up.\n\n\"Oh, I was just wild! I never realized how dear Jims was to me until\nthat moment. And I felt so utterly helpless.\"\n\n\"And then Susan gave up. 'We cannot save him! Oh, if your father was\nhere--look at him, the poor little fellow! I know not what to do.'\n\n\"I looked at Jims and I thought he was dying. Susan was holding him up\nin his crib to give him a better chance for breath, but it didn't seem\nas if he could breathe at all. My little war-baby, with his dear ways\nand sweet roguish face, was choking to death before my very eyes, and I\ncouldn't help him. I threw down the hot poultice I had ready in\ndespair. Of what use was it? Jims was dying, and it was my fault--I\nhadn't been careful enough!\n\n\"Just then--at eleven o'clock at night--the door bell rang. Such a\nring--it pealed all over the house above the roar of the storm. Susan\ncouldn't go--she dared not lay Jims down--so I rushed downstairs. In\nthe hall I paused just a minute--I was suddenly overcome by an absurd\ndread. I thought of a weird story Gertrude had told me once. An aunt of\nhers was alone in a house one night with her sick husband. She heard a\nknock at the door. And when she went and opened it there was nothing\nthere--nothing that could be seen, at least. But when she opened the\ndoor a deadly cold wind blew in and seemed to sweep past her right up\nthe stairs, although it was a calm, warm summer night outside.\nImmediately she heard a cry. She ran upstairs--and her husband was\ndead. And she always believed, so Gertrude said, that when she opened\nthat door she let Death in.\n\n\"It was so ridiculous of me to feel so frightened. But I was distracted\nand worn out, and I simply felt for a moment that I dared not open the\ndoor--that death was waiting outside. Then I remembered that I had no\ntime to waste--must not be so foolish--I sprang forward and opened the\ndoor.\n\n\"Certainly a cold wind did blow in and filled the hall with a whirl of\nsnow. But there on the threshold stood a form of flesh and blood--Mary\nVance, coated from head to foot with snow--and she brought Life, not\nDeath, with her, though I didn't know that then. I just stared at her.\n\n\"'I haven't been turned out,' grinned Mary, as she stepped in and shut\nthe door. 'I came up to Carter Flagg's two days ago and I've been\nstormed-stayed there ever since. But old Abbie Flagg got on my nerves\nat last, and tonight I just made up my mind to come up here. I thought\nI could wade this far, but I can tell you it was as much as a bargain.\nOnce I thought I was stuck for keeps. Ain't it an awful night?'\n\n\"I came to myself and knew I must hurry upstairs. I explained as\nquickly as I could to Mary, and left her trying to brush the snow off.\nUpstairs I found that Jims was over that paroxysm, but almost as soon\nas I got back to the room he was in the grip of another. I couldn't do\nanything but moan and cry--oh, how ashamed I am when I think of it; and\nyet what could I do--we had tried everything we knew--and then all at\nonce I heard Mary Vance saying loudly behind me, 'Why, that child is\ndying!'\n\n\"I whirled around. Didn't I know he was dying--my little Jims! I could\nhave thrown Mary Vance out of the door or the window--anywhere--at that\nmoment. There she stood, cool and composed, looking down at my baby,\nwith those, weird white eyes of hers, as she might look at a choking\nkitten. I had always disliked Mary Vance--and just then I hated her.\n\n\"'We have tried everything,' said poor Susan dully. 'It is not ordinary\ncroup.'\n\n\"'No, it's the dipthery croup,' said Mary briskly, snatching up an\napron. 'And there's mighty little time to lose--but I know what to do.\nWhen I lived over-harbour with Mrs. Wiley, years ago, Will Crawford's\nkid died of dipthery croup, in spite of two doctors. And when old Aunt\nChristina MacAllister heard of it--she was the one brought me round\nwhen I nearly died of pneumonia you know--she was a wonder--no doctor\nwas a patch on her--they don't hatch her breed of cats nowadays, let me\ntell you--she said she could have saved him with her grandmother's\nremedy if she'd been there. She told Mrs. Wiley what it was and I've\nnever forgot it. I've the greatest memory ever--a thing just lies in\nthe back of my head till the time comes to use it. Got any sulphur in\nthe house, Susan?'\n\n\"Yes, we had sulphur. Susan went down with Mary to get it, and I held\nJims. I hadn't any hope--not the least. Mary Vance might brag as she\nliked--she was always bragging--but I didn't believe any grandmother's\nremedy could save Jims now. Presently Mary came back. She had tied a\npiece of thick flannel over her mouth and nose, and she carried Susan's\nold tin chip pan, half full of burning coals.\n\n\"'You watch me,' she said boastfully. 'I've never done this, but it's\nkill or cure that child is dying anyway.'\n\n\"She sprinkled a spoonful of sulphur over the coals; and then she\npicked up Jims, turned him over, and held him face downward, right over\nthose choking, blinding fumes. I don't know why I didn't spring forward\nand snatch him away. Susan says it was because it was fore-ordained\nthat I shouldn't, and I think she is right, because it did really seem\nthat I was powerless to move. Susan herself seemed transfixed, watching\nMary from the doorway. Jims writhed in those big, firm, capable hands\nof Mary--oh yes, she is capable all right--and choked and wheezed--and\nchoked and wheezed--and I felt that he was being tortured to death--and\nthen all at once, after what seemed to me an hour, though it really\nwasn't long, he coughed up the membrane that was killing him. Mary\nturned him over and laid him back on his bed. He was white as marble\nand the tears were pouring out of his brown eyes--but that awful livid\nlook was gone from his face and he could breathe quite easily.\n\n\"'Wasn't that some trick?' said Mary gaily. 'I hadn't any idea how it\nwould work, but I just took a chance. I'll smoke his throat out again\nonce or twice before morning, just to kill all the germs, but you'll\nsee he'll be all right now.'\n\n\"Jims went right to sleep--real sleep, not coma, as I feared at first.\nMary 'smoked him,' as she called it, twice through the night, and at\ndaylight his throat was perfectly clear and his temperature was almost\nnormal. When I made sure of that I turned and looked at Mary Vance. She\nwas sitting on the lounge laying down the law to Susan on some subject\nabout which Susan must have known forty times as much as she did. But I\ndidn't mind how much law she laid down or how much she bragged. She had\na right to brag--she had dared to do what I would never have dared, and\nhad saved Jims from a horrible death. It didn't matter any more that\nshe had once chased me through the Glen with a codfish; it didn't\nmatter that she had smeared goose-grease all over my dream of romance\nthe night of the lighthouse dance; it didn't matter that she thought\nshe knew more than anybody else and always rubbed it in--I would never\ndislike Mary Vance again. I went over to her and kissed her.\n\n\"'What's up now?' she said.\n\n\"'Nothing--only I'm so grateful to you, Mary.'\n\n\"'Well, I think you ought to be, that's a fact. You two would have let\nthat baby die on your hands if I hadn't happened along,' said Mary,\njust beaming with complacency. She got Susan and me a tip-top breakfast\nand made us eat it, and 'bossed the life out of us,' as Susan says, for\ntwo days, until the roads were opened so that she could get home. Jims\nwas almost well by that time, and father turned up. He heard our tale\nwithout saying much. Father is rather scornful generally about what he\ncalls 'old wives' remedies.' He laughed a little and said, 'After this,\nMary Vance will expect me to call her in for consultation in all my\nserious cases.'\n\n\"So Christmas was not so hard as I expected it to be; and now the New\nYear is coming--and we are still hoping for the 'Big Push' that will\nend the war--and Little Dog Monday is getting stiff and rheumatic from\nhis cold vigils, but still he 'carries on,' and Shirley continues to\nread the exploits of the aces. Oh, nineteen-seventeen, what will you\nbring?\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nSHIRLEY GOES\n\n\"No, Woodrow, there will be no peace without victory,\" said Susan,\nsticking her knitting needle viciously through President Wilson's name\nin the newspaper column. \"We Canadians mean to have peace and victory,\ntoo. You, if it pleases you, Woodrow, can have the peace without the\nvictory\"--and Susan stalked off to bed with the comfortable\nconsciousness of having got the better of the argument with the\nPresident. But a few days later she rushed to Mrs. Blythe in red-hot\nexcitement.\n\n\"Mrs. Dr. dear, what do you think? A 'phone message has just come\nthrough from Charlottetown that Woodrow Wilson has sent that German\nambassador man to the right about at last. They tell me that means war.\nSo I begin to think that Woodrow's heart is in the right place after\nall, wherever his head may be, and I am going to commandeer a little\nsugar and celebrate the occasion with some fudge, despite the howls of\nthe Food Board. I thought that submarine business would bring things to\na crisis. I told Cousin Sophia so when she said it was the beginning of\nthe end for the Allies.\"\n\n\"Don't let the doctor hear of the fudge, Susan,\" said Anne, with a\nsmile. \"You know he has laid down very strict rules for us along the\nlines of economy the government has asked for.\"\n\n\"Yes, Mrs. Dr. dear, and a man should be master in his own household,\nand his women folk should bow to his decrees. I flatter myself that I\nam becoming quite efficient in economizing\"--Susan had taken to using\ncertain German terms with killing effect--\"but one can exercise a\nlittle gumption on the quiet now and then. Shirley was wishing for some\nof my fudge the other day--the Susan brand, as he called it--and I said\n'The first victory there is to celebrate I shall make you some.' I\nconsider this news quite equal to a victory, and what the doctor does\nnot know will never grieve him. I take the whole responsibility, Mrs.\nDr. dear, so do not you vex your conscience.\"\n\nSusan spoiled Shirley shamelessly that winter. He came home from\nQueen's every week-end, and Susan had all his favourite dishes for him,\nin so far as she could evade or wheedle the doctor, and waited on him\nhand and foot. Though she talked war constantly to everyone else she\nnever mentioned it to him or before him, but she watched him like a cat\nwatching a mouse; and when the German retreat from the Bapaume salient\nbegan and continued, Susan's exultation was linked up with something\ndeeper than anything she expressed. Surely the end was in sight--would\ncome now before--anyone else--could go.\n\n\"Things are coming our way at last. We have got the Germans on the\nrun,\" she boasted. \"The United States has declared war at last, as I\nalways believed they would, in spite of Woodrow's gift for letter\nwriting, and you will see they will go into it with a vim since I\nunderstand that is their habit, when they do start. And we have got the\nGermans on the run, too.\"\n\n\"The States mean well,\" moaned Cousin Sophia, \"but all the vim in the\nworld cannot put them on the fighting line this spring, and the Allies\nwill be finished before that. The Germans are just luring them on. That\nman Simonds says their retreat has put the Allies in a hole.\"\n\n\"That man Simonds has said more than he will ever live to make good,\"\nretorted Susan. \"I do not worry myself about his opinion as long as\nLloyd George is Premier of England. He will not be bamboozled and that\nyou may tie to. Things look good to me. The U. S. is in the war, and we\nhave got Kut and Bagdad back--and I would not be surprised to see the\nAllies in Berlin by June--and the Russians, too, since they have got\nrid of the Czar. That, in my opinion was a good piece of work.\"\n\n\"Time will show if it is,\" said Cousin Sophia, who would have been very\nindignant if anyone had told her that she would rather see Susan put to\nshame as a seer, than a successful overthrow of tyranny, or even the\nmarch of the Allies down Unter den Linden. But then the woes of the\nRussian people were quite unknown to Cousin Sophia, while this\naggravating, optimistic Susan was an ever-present thorn in her side.\n\nJust at that moment Shirley was sitting on the edge of the table in the\nliving-room, swinging his legs--a brown, ruddy, wholesome lad, from top\nto toe, every inch of him--and saying coolly, \"Mother and dad, I was\neighteen last Monday. Don't you think it's about time I joined up?\"\n\nThe pale mother looked at him.\n\n\"Two of my sons have gone and one will never return. Must I give you\ntoo, Shirley?\"\n\nThe age-old cry--\"Joseph is not and Simeon is not; and ye will take\nBenjamin away.\" How the mothers of the Great War echoed the old\nPatriarch's moan of so many centuries agone!\n\n\"You wouldn't have me a slacker, mother? I can get into the\nflying-corps. What say, dad?\"\n\nThe doctor's hands were not quite steady as he folded up the powders he\nwas concocting for Abbie Flagg's rheumatism. He had known this moment\nwas coming, yet he was not altogether prepared for it. He answered\nslowly, \"I won't try to hold you back from what you believe to be your\nduty. But you must not go unless your mother says you may.\"\n\nShirley said nothing more. He was not a lad of many words. Anne did not\nsay anything more just then, either. She was thinking of little Joyce's\ngrave in the old burying-ground over-harbour--little Joyce who would\nhave been a woman now, had she lived--of the white cross in France and\nthe splendid grey eyes of the little boy who had been taught his first\nlessons of duty and loyalty at her knee--of Jem in the terrible\ntrenches--of Nan and Di and Rilla, waiting--waiting--waiting, while the\ngolden years of youth passed by--and she wondered if she could bear any\nmore. She thought not; surely she had given enough.\n\nYet that night she told Shirley that he might go.\n\nThey did not tell Susan right away. She did not know it until, a few\ndays later, Shirley presented himself in her kitchen in his aviation\nuniform. Susan didn't make half the fuss she had made when Jem and\nWalter had gone. She said stonily, \"So they're going to take you, too.\"\n\n\"Take me? No. I'm going, Susan--got to.\"\n\nSusan sat down by the table, folded her knotted old hands, that had\ngrown warped and twisted working for the Ingleside children to still\ntheir shaking, and said:\n\n\"Yes, you must go. I did not see once why such things must be, but I\ncan see now.\"\n\n\"You're a brick, Susan,\" said Shirley. He was relieved that she took it\nso coolly--he had been a little afraid, with a boy's horror of \"a\nscene.\" He went out whistling gaily; but half an hour later, when pale\nAnne Blythe came in, Susan was still sitting there.\n\n\"Mrs. Dr. dear,\" said Susan, making an admission she would once have\ndied rather than make, \"I feel very old. Jem and Walter were yours but\nShirley is mine. And I cannot bear to think of him flying--his machine\ncrashing down--the life crushed out of his body--the dear little body I\nnursed and cuddled when he was a wee baby.\"\n\n\"Susan--don't,\" cried Anne.\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Dr. dear, I beg your pardon. I ought not to have said\nanything like that out loud. I sometimes forget that I resolved to be a\nheroine. This--this has shaken me a little. But I will not forget\nmyself again. Only if things do not go as smoothly in the kitchen for a\nfew days I hope you will make due allowance for me. At least,\" said\npoor Susan, forcing a grim smile in a desperate effort to recover lost\nstanding, \"at least flying is a clean job. He will not get so dirty and\nmessed up as he would in the trenches, and that is well, for he has\nalways been a tidy child.\"\n\nSo Shirley went--not radiantly, as to a high adventure, like Jem, not\nin a white flame of sacrifice, like Walter, but in a cool,\nbusiness-like mood, as of one doing something, rather dirty and\ndisagreeable, that had just got to be done. He kissed Susan for the\nfirst time since he was five years old, and said, \"Good-bye,\nSusan--mother Susan.\"\n\n\"My little brown boy--my little brown boy,\" said Susan. \"I wonder,\" she\nthought bitterly, as she looked at the doctor's sorrowful face, \"if you\nremember how you spanked him once when he was a baby. I am thankful I\nhave nothing like that on my conscience now.\"\n\nThe doctor did not remember the old discipline. But before he put on\nhis hat to go out on his round of calls he stood for a moment in the\ngreat silent living-room that had once been full of children's laughter.\n\n\"Our last son--our last son,\" he said aloud. \"A good, sturdy, sensible\nlad, too. Always reminded me of my father. I suppose I ought to be\nproud that he wanted to go--I was proud when Jem went--even when Walter\nwent--but 'our house is left us desolate.'\"\n\n\"I have been thinking, doctor,\" old Sandy of the Upper Glen said to him\nthat afternoon, \"that your house will be seeming very big the day.\"\n\nHighland Sandy's quaint phrase struck the doctor as perfectly\nexpressive. Ingleside did seem very big and empty that night. Yet\nShirley had been away all winter except for week-ends, and had always\nbeen a quiet fellow even when home. Was it because he had been the only\none left that his going seemed to leave such a huge blank--that every\nroom seemed vacant and deserted--that the very trees on the lawn seemed\nto be trying to comfort each other with caresses of freshly-budding\nboughs for the loss of the last of the little lads who had romped under\nthem in childhood?\n\nSusan worked very hard all day and late into the night. When she had\nwound the kitchen clock and put Dr. Jekyll out, none too gently, she\nstood for a little while on the doorstep, looking down the Glen, which\nlay tranced in faint, silvery light from a sinking young moon. But\nSusan did not see the familiar hills and harbour. She was looking at\nthe aviation camp in Kingsport where Shirley was that night.\n\n\"He called me 'Mother Susan,'\" she was thinking. \"Well, all our men\nfolk have gone now--Jem and Walter and Shirley and Jerry and Carl. And\nnone of them had to be driven to it. So we have a right to be proud.\nBut pride--\" Susan sighed bitterly--\"pride is cold company and that\nthere is no gainsaying.\"\n\nThe moon sank lower into a black cloud in the west, the Glen went out\nin an eclipse of sudden shadow--and thousands of miles away the\nCanadian boys in khaki--the living and the dead--were in possession of\nVimy Ridge.\n\nVimy Ridge is a name written in crimson and gold on the Canadian annals\nof the Great War. \"The British couldn't take it and the French couldn't\ntake it,\" said a German prisoner to his captors, \"but you Canadians are\nsuch fools that you don't know when a place can't be taken!\"\n\nSo the \"fools\" took it--and paid the price.\n\nJerry Meredith was seriously wounded at Vimy Ridge--shot in the back,\nthe telegram said.\n\n\"Poor Nan,\" said Mrs. Blythe, when the news came. She thought of her\nown happy girlhood at old Green Gables. There had been no tragedy like\nthis in it. How the girls of to-day had to suffer! When Nan came home\nfrom Redmond two weeks later her face showed what those weeks had meant\nto her. John Meredith, too, seemed to have grown old suddenly in them.\nFaith did not come home; she was on her way across the Atlantic as a\nV.A.D. Di had tried to wring from her father consent to her going also,\nbut had been told that for her mother's sake it could not be given. So\nDi, after a flying visit home, went back to her Red Cross work in\nKingsport.\n\nThe mayflowers bloomed in the secret nooks of Rainbow Valley. Rilla was\nwatching for them. Jem had once taken his mother the earliest\nmayflowers; Walter brought them to her when Jem was gone; last spring\nShirley had sought them out for her; now, Rilla thought she must take\nthe boys' place in this. But before she had discovered any, Bruce\nMeredith came to Ingleside one twilight with his hands full of delicate\npink sprays. He stalked up the steps of the veranda and laid them on\nMrs. Blythe's lap.\n\n\"Because Shirley isn't here to bring them,\" he said in his funny, shy,\nblunt way.\n\n\"And you thought of this, you darling,\" said Anne, her lips quivering,\nas she looked at the stocky, black-browed little chap, standing before\nher, with his hands thrust into his pockets.\n\n\"I wrote Jem to-day and told him not to worry 'bout you not getting\nyour mayflowers,\" said Bruce seriously, \"'cause I'd see to that. And I\ntold him I would be ten pretty soon now, so it won't be very long\nbefore I'll be eighteen, and then I'll go to help him fight, and maybe\nlet him come home for a rest while I took his place. I wrote Jerry,\ntoo. Jerry's getting better, you know.\"\n\n\"Is he? Have you had any good news about him?\"\n\n\"Yes. Mother had a letter to-day, and it said he was out of danger.\"\n\n\"Oh, thank God,\" murmured Mrs. Blythe, in a half-whisper.\n\nBruce looked at her curiously.\n\n\"That is what father said when mother told him. But when l said it the\nother day when I found out Mr. Mead's dog hadn't hurt my kitten--I\nthought he had shooken it to death, you know--father looked awful\nsolemn and said I must never say that again about a kitten. But I\ncouldn't understand why, Mrs. Blythe. I felt awful thankful, and it\nmust have been God that saved Stripey, because that Mead dog had\n'normous jaws, and oh, how it shook poor Stripey. And so why couldn't I\nthank Him? 'Course,\" added Bruce reminiscently, \"maybe I said it too\nloud--'cause I was awful glad and excited when I found Stripey was all\nright. I 'most shouted it, Mrs. Blythe. Maybe if I'd said it sort of\nwhispery like you and father it would have been all right. Do you know,\nMrs. Blythe\"--Bruce dropped to a \"whispery\" tone, edging a little\nnearer to Anne--\"what I would like to do to the Kaiser if I could?\"\n\n\"What would you like to do, laddie?\"\n\n\"Norman Reese said in school to-day that he would like to tie the\nKaiser to a tree and set cross dogs to worrying him,\" said Bruce\ngravely. \"And Emily Flagg said she would like to put him in a cage and\npoke sharp things into him. And they all said things like that. But\nMrs. Blythe\"--Bruce took a little square paw out of his pocket and put\nit earnestly on Anne's knee--\"I would like to turn the Kaiser into a\ngood man--a very good man--all at once if I could. That is what I would\ndo. Don't you think, Mrs. Blythe, that would be the very worstest\npunishment of all?\"\n\n\"Bless the child,\" said Susan, \"how do you make out that would be any\nkind of a punishment for that wicked fiend?\"\n\n\"Don't you see,\" said Bruce, looking levelly at Susan, out of his\nblackly blue eyes, \"if he was turned into a good man he would\nunderstand how dreadful the things he has done are, and he would feel\nso terrible about it that he would be more unhappy and miserable than\nhe could ever be in any other way. He would feel just awful--and he\nwould go on feeling like that forever. Yes\"--Bruce clenched his hands\nand nodded his head emphatically, \"yes, I would make the Kaiser a good\nman--that is what I would do--it would serve him 'zackly right.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nSUSAN HAS A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE\n\nAn aeroplane was flying over Glen St. Mary, like a great bird poised\nagainst the western sky--a sky so clear and of such a pale, silvery\nyellow, that it gave an impression of a vast, wind-freshened space of\nfreedom. The little group on the Ingleside lawn looked up at it with\nfascinated eyes, although it was by no means an unusual thing to see an\noccasional hovering plane that summer. Susan was always intensely\nexcited. Who knew but that it might be Shirley away up there in the\nclouds, flying over to the Island from Kingsport? But Shirley had gone\noverseas now, so Susan was not so keenly interested in this particular\naeroplane and its pilot. Nevertheless, she looked at it with awe.\n\n\"I wonder, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" she said solemnly, \"what the old folks down\nthere in the graveyard would think if they could rise out of their\ngraves for one moment and behold that sight. I am sure my father would\ndisapprove of it, for he was a man who did not believe in new-fangled\nideas of any sort. He always cut his grain with a reaping hook to the\nday of his death. A mower he would not have. What was good enough for\nhis father was good enough for him, he used to say. I hope it is not\nunfilial to say that I think he was wrong in that point of view, but I\nam not sure I go so far as to approve of aeroplanes, though they may be\na military necessity. If the Almighty had meant us to fly he would have\nprovided us with wings. Since He did not it is plain He meant us to\nstick to the solid earth. At any rate, you will never see me, Mrs. Dr.\ndear, cavorting through the sky in an aeroplane.\"\n\n\"But you won't refuse to cavort a bit in father's new automobile when\nit comes, will you, Susan?\" teased Rilla.\n\n\"I do not expect to trust my old bones in automobiles, either,\"\nretorted Susan. \"But I do not look upon them as some narrow-minded\npeople do. Whiskers-on-the-moon says the Government should be turned\nout of office for permitting them to run on the Island at all. He foams\nat the mouth, they tell me, when he sees one. The other day he saw one\ncoming along that narrow side-road by his wheatfield, and Whiskers\nbounded over the fence and stood right in the middle of the road, with\nhis pitchfork. The man in the machine was an agent of some kind, and\nWhiskers hates agents as much as he hates automobiles. He made the car\ncome to a halt, because there was not room to pass him on either side,\nand the agent could not actually run over him. Then he raised his\npitchfork and shouted, 'Get out of this with your devil-machine or I\nwill run this pitchfork clean through you.' And Mrs. Dr. dear, if you\nwill believe me, that poor agent had to back his car clean out to the\nLowbridge road, nearly a mile, Whiskers following him every step,\nshaking his pitchfork and bellowing insults. Now, Mrs. Dr. dear, I call\nsuch conduct unreasonable; but all the same,\" added Susan, with a sigh,\n\"what with aeroplanes and automobiles and all the rest of it, this\nIsland is not what it used to be.\"\n\nThe aeroplane soared and dipped and circled, and soared again, until it\nbecame a mere speck far over the sunset hills.\n\n\"'With the majesty of pinion Which the Theban eagles bear Sailing with\nsupreme dominion Through the azure fields of air.'\"\n\nquoted Anne Blythe dreamily.\n\n\"I wonder,\" said Miss Oliver, \"if humanity will be any happier because\nof aeroplanes. It seems to me that the sum of human happiness remains\nmuch the same from age to age, no matter how it may vary in\ndistribution, and that all the 'many inventions' neither lessen nor\nincrease it.\"\n\n\"After all, the 'kingdom of heaven is within you,'\" said Mr. Meredith,\ngazing after the vanishing speck which symbolized man's latest victory\nin a world-old struggle. \"It does not depend on material achievements\nand triumphs.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless, an aeroplane is a fascinating thing,\" said the doctor.\n\"It has always been one of humanity's favourite dreams--the dream of\nflying. Dream after dream comes true--or rather is made true by\npersevering effort. I should like to have a flight in an aeroplane\nmyself.\"\n\n\"Shirley wrote me that he was dreadfully disappointed in his first\nflight,\" said Rilla. \"He had expected to experience the sensation of\nsoaring up from the earth like a bird--and instead he just had the\nfeeling that he wasn't moving at all, but that the earth was dropping\naway under him. And the first time he went up alone he suddenly felt\nterribly homesick. He had never felt like that before; but all at once,\nhe said, he felt as if he were adrift in space--and he had a wild\ndesire to get back home to the old planet and the companionship of\nfellow creatures. He soon got over that feeling, but he says his first\nflight alone was a nightmare to him because of that dreadful sensation\nof ghastly loneliness.\"\n\nThe aeroplane disappeared. The doctor threw back his head with a sigh.\n\n\"When I have watched one of those bird-men out of sight I come back to\nearth with an odd feeling of being merely a crawling insect. Anne,\" he\nsaid, turning to his wife, \"do you remember the first time I took you\nfor a buggy ride in Avonlea--that night we went to the Carmody concert,\nthe first fall you taught in Avonlea? I had out little black mare with\nthe white star on her forehead, and a shining brand-new buggy--and I\nwas the proudest fellow in the world, barring none. I suppose our\ngrandson will be taking his sweetheart out quite casually for an\nevening 'fly' in his aeroplane.\"\n\n\"An aeroplane won't be as nice as little Silverspot was,\" said Anne. \"A\nmachine is simply a machine--but Silverspot, why she was a personality,\nGilbert. A drive behind her had something in it that not even a flight\namong sunset clouds could have. No, I don't envy my grandson's\nsweetheart, after all. Mr. Meredith is right. 'The kingdom of\nHeaven'--and of love--and of happiness--doesn't depend on externals.\"\n\n\"Besides,\" said the doctor gravely, \"our said grandson will have to\ngive most of his attention to the aeroplane--he won't be able to let\nthe reins lie on its back while he gazes into his lady's eyes. And I\nhave an awful suspicion that you can't run an aeroplane with one arm.\nNo\"--the doctor shook his head--\"I believe I'd still prefer Silverspot\nafter all.\"\n\nThe Russian line broke again that summer and Susan said bitterly that\nshe had expected it ever since Kerensky had gone and got married.\n\n\"Far be it from me to decry the holy state of matrimony, Mrs. Dr. dear,\nbut I felt that when a man was running a revolution he had his hands\nfull and should have postponed marriage until a more fitting season.\nThe Russians are done for this time and there would be no sense in\nshutting our eyes to the fact. But have you seen Woodrow Wilson's reply\nto the Pope's peace proposals? It is magnificent. I really could not\nhave expressed the rights of the matter better myself. I feel that I\ncan forgive Wilson everything for it. He knows the meaning of words and\nthat you may tie to. Speaking of meanings, have you heard the latest\nstory about Whiskers-on-the-moon, Mrs. Dr. dear? It seems he was over\nat the Lowbridge Road school the other day and took a notion to examine\nthe fourth class in spelling. They have the summer term there yet, you\nknow, with the spring and fall vacations, being rather backward people\non that road. My niece, Ella Baker, goes to that school and she it was\nwho told me the story. The teacher was not feeling well, having a\ndreadful headache, and she went out to get a little fresh air while Mr.\nPryor was examining the class. The children got along all right with\nthe spelling but when Whiskers began to question them about the\nmeanings of the words they were all at sea, because they had not\nlearned them. Ella and the other big scholars felt terrible over it.\nThey love their teacher so, and it seems Mr. Pryor's brother, Abel\nPryor, who is trustee of that school, is against her and has been\ntrying to turn the other trustees over to his way of thinking. And Ella\nand the rest were afraid that if the fourth class couldn't tell\nWhiskers the meanings of the words he would think the teacher was no\ngood and tell Abel so, and Abel would have a fine handle. But little\nSandy Logan saved the situation. He is a Home boy, but he is as smart\nas a steel trap, and he sized up Whiskers-on-the-moon right off. 'What\ndoes \"anatomy\" mean?' Whiskers demanded. 'A pain in your stomach,'\nSandy replied, quick as a flash and never batting an eyelid.\nWhiskers-on-the-moon is a very ignorant man, Mrs. Dr. dear; he didn't\nknow the meaning of the words himself, and he said 'Very good--very\ngood.' The class caught right on--at least three or four of the\nbrighter ones did--and they kept up the fun. Jean Blane said that\n'acoustic' meant 'a religious squabble,' and Muriel Baker said that an\n'agnostic' was 'a man who had indigestion,' and Jim Carter said that\n'acerbity' meant that 'you ate nothing but vegetable food,' and so on\nall down the list. Whiskers swallowed it all, and kept saying 'Very\ngood--very good' until Ella thought that die she would trying to keep a\nstraight face. When the teacher came in, Whiskers complimented her on\nthe splendid understanding the children had of their lesson and said he\nmeant to tell the trustees what a jewel they had. It was 'very\nunusual,' he said, to find a fourth class who could answer up so prompt\nwhen it came to explaining what words meant. He went off beaming. But\nElla told me this as a great secret, Mrs. Dr. dear, and we must keep it\nas such, for the sake of the Lowbridge Road teacher. It would likely be\nthe ruin of her chances of keeping the school if Whiskers should ever\nfind out how he had been bamboozled.\"\n\nMary Vance came up to Ingleside that same afternoon to tell them that\nMiller Douglas, who had been wounded when the Canadians took Hill 70,\nhad had to have his leg amputated. The Ingleside folk sympathized with\nMary, whose zeal and patriotism had taken some time to kindle but now\nburned with a glow as steady and bright as any one's.\n\n\"Some folks have been twitting me about having a husband with only one\nleg. But,\" said Mary, rising to a lofty height, \"I would rather Miller\nwith only one leg than any other man in the world with a\ndozen--unless,\" she added as an after-thought, \"unless it was Lloyd\nGeorge. Well, I must be going. I thought you'd be interested in hearing\nabout Miller so I ran up from the store, but I must hustle home for I\npromised Luke MacAllister I'd help him build his grain stack this\nevening. It's up to us girls to see that the harvest is got in, since\nthe boys are so scarce. I've got overalls and I can tell you they're\nreal becoming. Mrs. Alec Douglas says they're indecent and shouldn't be\nallowed, and even Mrs. Elliott kinder looks askance at them. But bless\nyou, the world moves, and anyhow there's no fun for me like shocking\nKitty Alec.\"\n\n\"By the way, father,\" said Rilla, \"I'm going to take Jack Flagg's place\nin his father's store for a month. I promised him today that I would,\nif you didn't object. Then he can help the farmers get the harvest in.\nI don't think I'd be much use in a harvest myself--though lots of the\ngirls are--but I can set Jack free while I do his work. Jims isn't much\nbother in the daytime now, and I'll always be home at night.\"\n\n\"Do you think you'll like weighing out sugar and beans, and trafficking\nin butter and eggs?\" said the doctor, twinkling.\n\n\"Probably not. That isn't the question. It's just one way of doing my\nbit.\" So Rilla went behind Mr. Flagg's counter for a month; and Susan\nwent into Albert Crawford's oat-fields.\n\n\"I am as good as any of them yet,\" she said proudly. \"Not a man of them\ncan beat me when it comes to building a stack. When I offered to help\nAlbert looked doubtful. 'I am afraid the work will be too hard for\nyou,' he said. 'Try me for a day and see,' said I. 'I will do my\ndarnedest.'\"\n\nNone of the Ingleside folks spoke for just a moment. Their silence\nmeant that they thought Susan's pluck in \"working out\" quite wonderful.\nBut Susan mistook their meaning and her sun-burned face grew red.\n\n\"This habit of swearing seems to be growing on me, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" she\nsaid apologetically. \"To think that I should be acquiring it at my age!\nIt is such a dreadful example to the young girls. I am of the opinion\nit comes of reading the newspapers so much. They are so full of\nprofanity and they do not spell it with stars either, as used to be\ndone in my young days. This war is demoralizing everybody.\"\n\nSusan, standing on a load of grain, her grey hair whipping in the\nbreeze and her skirt kilted up to her knees for safety and\nconvenience--no overalls for Susan, if you please--neither a beautiful\nnor a romantic figure; but the spirit that animated her gaunt arms was\nthe self-same one that captured Vimy Ridge and held the German legions\nback from Verdun.\n\nIt is not the least likely, however, that this consideration was the\none which appealed most strongly to Mr. Pryor when he drove past one\nafternoon and saw Susan pitching sheaves gamely.\n\n\"Smart woman that,\" he reflected. \"Worth two of many a younger one yet.\nI might do worse--I might do worse. If Milgrave comes home alive I'll\nlose Miranda and hired housekeepers cost more than a wife and are\nliable to leave a man in the lurch any time. I'll think it over.\"\n\nA week later Mrs. Blythe, coming up from the village late in the\nafternoon, paused at the gate of Ingleside in an amazement which\ntemporarily bereft her of the power of motion. An extraordinary sight\nmet her eyes. Round the end of the kitchen burst Mr. Pryor, running as\nstout, pompous Mr. Pryor had not run in years, with terror imprinted on\nevery lineament--a terror quite justifiable, for behind him, like an\navenging fate, came Susan, with a huge, smoking iron pot grasped in her\nhands, and an expression in her eye that boded ill to the object of her\nindignation, if she should overtake him. Pursuer and pursued tore\nacross the lawn. Mr. Pryor reached the gate a few feet ahead of Susan,\nwrenched it open, and fled down the road, without a glance at the\ntransfixed lady of Ingleside.\n\n\"Susan,\" gasped Anne.\n\nSusan halted in her mad career, set down her pot, and shook her fist\nafter Mr. Pryor, who had not ceased to run, evidently believing that\nSusan was still full cry after him.\n\n\"Susan, what does this mean?\" demanded Anne, a little severely.\n\n\"You may well ask that, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" Susan replied wrathfully. \"I\nhave not been so upset in years. That--that--that pacifist has actually\nhad the audacity to come up here and, in my own kitchen, to ask me to\nmarry him. HIM!\"\n\nAnne choked back a laugh.\n\n\"But--Susan! Couldn't you have found a--well, a less spectacular method\nof refusing him? Think what a gossip this would have made if anyone had\nbeen going past and had seen such a performance.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Mrs. Dr. dear, you are quite right. I did not think of it\nbecause I was quite past thinking rationally. I was just clean mad.\nCome in the house and I will tell you all about it.\"\n\nSusan picked up her pot and marched into the kitchen, still trembling\nwith wrathful excitement. She set her pot on the stove with a vicious\nthud. \"Wait a moment until I open all the windows to air this kitchen\nwell, Mrs. Dr. dear. There, that is better. And I must wash my hands,\ntoo, because I shook hands with Whiskers-on-the-moon when he came\nin--not that I wanted to, but when he stuck out his fat, oily hand I\ndid not know just what else to do at the moment. I had just finished my\nafternoon cleaning and thanks be, everything was shining and spotless;\nand thought I 'now that dye is boiling and I will get my rug rags and\nhave them nicely out of the way before supper.'\n\n\"Just then a shadow fell over the floor and looking up I saw\nWhiskers-on-the-moon, standing in the doorway, dressed up and looking\nas if he had just been starched and ironed. I shook hands with him, as\naforesaid, Mrs. Dr. dear, and told him you and the doctor were both\naway. But he said,\n\n\"I have come to see you, Miss Baker.'\n\n\"I asked him to sit down, for the sake of my own manners, and then I\nstood there right in the middle of the floor and gazed at him as\ncontemptuously as I could. In spite of his brazen assurance this seemed\nto rattle him a little; but he began trying to look sentimental at me\nout of his little piggy eyes, and all at once an awful suspicion\nflashed into my mind. Something told me, Mrs. Dr. dear, that I was\nabout to receive my first proposal. I have always thought that I would\nlike to have just one offer of marriage to reject, so that I might be\nable to look other women in the face, but you will not hear me bragging\nof this. I consider it an insult and if I could have thought of any way\nof preventing it I would. But just then, Mrs. Dr. dear, you will see I\nwas at a disadvantage, being taken so completely by surprise. Some men,\nI am told, consider a little preliminary courting the proper thing\nbefore a proposal, if only to give fair warning of their intentions;\nbut Whiskers-on-the-moon probably thought it was any port in a storm\nfor me and that I would jump at him. Well, he is undeceived--yes, he is\nundeceived, Mrs. Dr. dear. I wonder if he has stopped running yet.\"\n\n\"I understand that you don't feel flattered, Susan. But couldn't you\nhave refused him a little more delicately than by chasing him off the\npremises in such a fashion?\"\n\n\"Well, maybe I might have, Mrs. Dr. dear, and I intended to, but one\nremark he made aggravated me beyond my powers of endurance. If it had\nnot been for that I would not have chased him with my dye-pot. I will\ntell you the whole interview. Whiskers sat down, as I have said, and\nright beside him on another chair Doc was lying. The animal was\npretending to be asleep but I knew very well he was not, for he has\nbeen Hyde all day and Hyde never sleeps. By the way, Mrs. Dr. dear,\nhave you noticed that that cat is far oftener Hyde than Jekyll now? The\nmore victories Germany wins the Hyder he becomes. I leave you to draw\nyour own conclusions from that. I suppose Whiskers thought he might\ncurry favour with me by praising the creature, little dreaming what my\nreal sentiments towards it were, so he stuck out his pudgy hand and\nstroked Mr. Hyde's back. 'What a nice cat,' he said. The nice cat flew\nat him and bit him. Then it gave a fearful yowl, and bounded out of the\ndoor. Whiskers looked after it quite amazed. 'That is a queer kind of a\nvarmint,' he said. I agreed with him on that point, but I was not going\nto let him see it. Besides, what business had he to call our cat a\nvarmint? 'It may be a varmint or it may not,' I said, 'but it knows the\ndifference between a Canadian and a Hun.' You would have thought, would\nyou not, Mrs. Dr. dear, that a hint like that would have been enough\nfor him! But it went no deeper than his skin. I saw him settling back\nquite comfortable, as if for a good talk, and thought I, 'If there is\nanything coming it may as well come soon and be done with, for with all\nthese rags to dye before supper I have no time to waste in flirting,'\nso I spoke right out. 'If you have anything particular to discuss with\nme, Mr. Pryor, I would feel obliged if you would mention it without\nloss of time, because I am very busy this afternoon.' He fairly beamed\nat me out of that circle of red whisker, and said, 'You are a\nbusiness-like woman and I agree with you. There is no use in wasting\ntime beating around the bush. I came up here today to ask you to marry\nme.' So there it was, Mrs. Dr. dear. I had a proposal at last, after\nwaiting sixty-four years for one.\n\n\"I just glared at that presumptuous creature and I said, 'I would not\nmarry you if you were the last man on earth, Josiah Pryor. So there you\nhave my answer and you can take it away forthwith.' You never saw a man\nso taken aback as he was, Mrs. Dr. dear. He was so flabbergasted that\nhe just blurted out the truth. 'Why, I thought you'd be only too glad\nto get a chance to be married,' he said. That was when I lost my head,\nMrs. Dr. dear. Do you think I had a good excuse, when a Hun and a\npacifist made such an insulting remark to me? 'Go,' I thundered, and I\njust caught up that iron pot. I could see that he thought I had\nsuddenly gone insane, and I suppose he considered an iron pot full of\nboiling dye was a dangerous weapon in the hands of a lunatic. At any\nrate he went, and stood not upon the order of his going, as you saw for\nyourself. And I do not think we will see him back here proposing to us\nagain in a hurry. No, I think he has learned that there is at least one\nsingle woman in Glen St. Mary who has no hankering to become Mrs.\nWhiskers-on-the-moon.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nWAITING\n\nIngleside,\n 1st November 1917\n\n\"It is November--and the Glen is all grey and brown, except where the\nLombardy poplars stand up here and there like great golden torches in\nthe sombre landscape, although every other tree has shed its leaves. It\nhas been very hard to keep our courage alight of late. The Caporetto\ndisaster is a dreadful thing and not even Susan can extract much\nconsolation out of the present state of affairs. The rest of us don't\ntry. Gertrude keeps saying desperately, 'They must not get Venice--they\nmust not get Venice,' as if by saying it often enough she can prevent\nthem. But what is to prevent them from getting Venice I cannot see.\nYet, as Susan fails not to point out, there was seemingly nothing to\nprevent them from getting to Paris in 1914, yet they did not get it,\nand she affirms they shall not get Venice either. Oh, how I hope and\npray they will not--Venice the beautiful Queen of the Adriatic.\nAlthough I've never seen it I feel about it just as Byron did--I've\nalways loved it--it has always been to me 'a fairy city of the heart.'\nPerhaps I caught my love of it from Walter, who worshipped it. It was\nalways one of his dreams to see Venice. I remember we planned\nonce--down in Rainbow Valley one evening just before the war broke\nout--that some time we would go together to see it and float in a\ngondola through its moonlit streets.\n\n\"Every fall since the war began there has been some terrible blow to\nour troops--Antwerp in 1914, Serbia in 1915; last fall, Rumania, and\nnow Italy, the worst of all. I think I would give up in despair if it\nwere not for what Walter said in his dear last letter--that 'the dead\nas well as the living were fighting on our side and such an army cannot\nbe defeated.' No it cannot. We will win in the end. I will not doubt it\nfor one moment. To let myself doubt would be to 'break faith.'\n\n\"We have all been campaigning furiously of late for the new Victory\nLoan. We Junior Reds canvassed diligently and landed several tough old\ncustomers who had at first flatly refused to invest. I--even I--tackled\nWhiskers-on-the-moon. I expected a bad time and a refusal. But to my\namazement he was quite agreeable and promised on the spot to take a\nthousand dollar bond. He may be a pacifist, but he knows a good\ninvestment when it is handed out to him. Five and a half per cent is\nfive and a half per cent, even when a militaristic government pays it.\n\n\"Father, to tease Susan, says it was her speech at the Victory Loan\nCampaign meeting that converted Mr. Pryor. I don't think that at all\nlikely, since Mr. Pryor has been publicly very bitter against Susan\never since her quite unmistakable rejection of his lover-like advances.\nBut Susan did make a speech--and the best one made at the meeting, too.\nIt was the first time she ever did such a thing and she vows it will be\nthe last. Everybody in the Glen was at the meeting, and quite a number\nof speeches were made, but somehow things were a little flat and no\nespecial enthusiasm could be worked up. Susan was quite dismayed at the\nlack of zeal, because she had been burningly anxious that the Island\nshould go over the top in regard to its quota. She kept whispering\nviciously to Gertrude and me that there was 'no ginger' in the\nspeeches; and when nobody went forward to subscribe to the loan at the\nclose Susan 'lost her head.' At least, that is how she describes it\nherself. She bounded to her feet, her face grim and set under her\nbonnet--Susan is the only woman in Glen St. Mary who still wears a\nbonnet--and said sarcastically and loudly, 'No doubt it is much cheaper\nto talk patriotism than it is to pay for it. And we are asking charity,\nof course--we are asking you to lend us your money for nothing! No\ndoubt the Kaiser will feel quite downcast when he hears of this\nmeeting!\"\n\n\"Susan has an unshaken belief that the Kaiser's spies--presumably\nrepresented by Mr. Pryor--promptly inform him of every happening in our\nGlen.\n\n\"Norman Douglas shouted out 'Hear! Hear!' and some boy at the back\nsaid, 'What about Lloyd George?' in a tone Susan didn't like. Lloyd\nGeorge is her pet hero, now that Kitchener is gone.\n\n\"'I stand behind Lloyd George every time,' retorted Susan.\n\n\"'I suppose that will hearten him up greatly,' said Warren Mead, with\none of his disagreeable 'haw-haws.'\n\n\"Warren's remark was spark to powder. Susan just 'sailed in' as she\nputs it, and 'said her say.' She said it remarkably well, too. There\nwas no lack of 'ginger' in her speech, anyhow. When Susan is warmed up\nshe has no mean powers of oratory, and the way she trimmed those men\ndown was funny and wonderful and effective all at once. She said it was\nthe likes of her, millions of her, that did stand behind Lloyd George,\nand did hearten him up. That was the key-note of her speech. Dear old\nSusan! She is a perfect dynamo of patriotism and loyalty and contempt\nfor slackers of all kinds, and when she let it loose on that audience\nin her one grand outburst she electrified it. Susan always vows she is\nno suffragette, but she gave womanhood its due that night, and she\nliterally made those men cringe. When she finished with them they were\nready to eat out of her hand. She wound up by ordering them--yes,\nordering them--to march up to the platform forthwith and subscribe for\nVictory Bonds. And after wild applause most of them did it, even Warren\nMead. When the total amount subscribed came out in the Charlottetown\ndailies the next day we found that the Glen led every district on the\nIsland--and certainly Susan has the credit for it. She, herself, after\nshe came home that night was quite ashamed and evidently feared that\nshe had been guilty of unbecoming conduct: she confessed to mother that\nshe had been 'rather unladylike.'\n\n\"We were all--except Susan--out for a trial ride in father's new\nautomobile tonight. A very good one we had, too, though we did get\ningloriously ditched at the end, owing to a certain grim old dame--to\nwit, Miss Elizabeth Carr of the Upper Glen--who wouldn't rein her horse\nout to let us pass, honk as we might. Father was quite furious; but in\nmy heart I believe I sympathized with Miss Elizabeth. If I had been a\nspinster lady, driving along behind my own old nag, in maiden\nmeditation fancy free, I wouldn't have lifted a rein when an\nobstreperous car hooted blatantly behind me. I should just have sat up\nas dourly as she did and said 'Take the ditch if you are determined to\npass.'\n\n\"We did take the ditch--and got up to our axles in sand--and sat\nfoolishly there while Miss Elizabeth clucked up her horse and rattled\nvictoriously away.\n\n\"Jem will have a laugh when I write him this. He knows Miss Elizabeth\nof old.\n\n\"But--will--Venice--be--saved?\"\n\n\n19th November 1917\n\n\"It is not saved yet--it is still in great danger. But the Italians\nare making a stand at last on the Piave line. To be sure military\ncritics say they cannot possibly hold it and must retreat to the\nAdige. But Susan and Gertrude and I say they must hold it, because\nVenice must be saved, so what are the military critics to do?\n\n\"Oh, if I could only believe that they can hold it!\n\n\"Our Canadian troops have won another great victory--they have stormed\nthe Passchendaele Ridge and held it in the face of all counter attacks.\nNone of our boys were in the battle--but oh, the casualty list of other\npeople's boys! Joe Milgrave was in it but came through safe. Miranda\nhad some bad days until she got word from him. But it is wonderful how\nMiranda has bloomed out since her marriage. She isn't the same girl at\nall. Even her eyes seem to have darkened and deepened--though I suppose\nthat is just because they glow with the greater intensity that has come\nto her. She makes her father stand round in a perfectly amazing\nfashion; she runs up the flag whenever a yard of trench on the western\nfront is taken; and she comes up regularly to our Junior Red Cross; and\nshe does--yes, she does--put on funny little 'married woman' airs that\nare quite killing. But she is the only war-bride in the Glen and surely\nnobody need grudge her the satisfaction she gets out of it.\n\n\"The Russian news is bad, too--Kerensky's government has fallen and\nLenin is dictator of Russia. Somehow, it is very hard to keep up\ncourage in the dull hopelessness of these grey autumn days of suspense\nand boding news. But we are beginning to 'get in a low,' as old\nHighland Sandy says, over the approaching election. Conscription is the\nreal issue at stake and it will be the most exciting election we ever\nhad. All the women 'who have got de age'--to quote Jo Poirier, and who\nhave husbands, sons, and brothers at the front, can vote. Oh, if I were\nonly twenty-one! Gertrude and Susan are both furious because they can't\nvote.\n\n\"'It is not fair,' Gertrude says passionately. 'There is Agnes Carr who\ncan vote because her husband went. She did everything she could to\nprevent him from going, and now she is going to vote against the Union\nGovernment. Yet I have no vote, because my man at the front is only my\nsweetheart and not my husband!\"\n\n\"As for Susan, when she reflects that she cannot vote, while a rank old\npacifist like Mr. Pryor can--and will--her comments are sulphurous.\n\n\"I really feel sorry for the Elliotts and Crawfords and MacAllisters\nover-harbour. They have always lined up in clearly divided camps of\nLiberal and Conservative, and now they are torn from their moorings--I\nknow I'm mixing my metaphors dreadfully--and set hopelessly adrift. It\nwill kill some of those old Grits to vote for Sir Robert Borden's\nside--and yet they have to because they believe the time has come when\nwe must have conscription. And some poor Conservatives who are against\nconscription must vote for Laurier, who always has been anathema to\nthem. Some of them are taking it terribly hard. Others seem to be in\nmuch the same attitude as Mrs. Marshall Elliott has come to be\nregarding Church Union.\n\n\"She was up here last night. She doesn't come as often as she used to.\nShe is growing too old to walk this far--dear old 'Miss Cornelia.' I\nhate to think of her growing old--we have always loved her so and she\nhas always been so good to us Ingleside young fry.\n\n\"She used to be so bitterly opposed to Church Union. But last night,\nwhen father told her it was practically decided, she said in a resigned\ntone, 'Well, in a world where everything is being rent and torn what\nmatters one more rending and tearing? Anyhow, compared with Germans\neven Methodists seem attractive to me.'\n\n\"Our Junior R.C. goes on quite smoothly, in spite of the fact that\nIrene has come back to it--having fallen out with the Lowbridge\nsociety, I understand. She gave me a sweet little jab last\nmeeting--about knowing me across the square in Charlottetown 'by my\ngreen velvet hat.' Everybody knows me by that detestable and detested\nhat. This will be my fourth season for it. Even mother wanted me to get\na new one this fall; but I said, 'No.' As long as the war lasts so long\ndo I wear that velvet hat in winter.\"\n\n\n23rd November 1917\n\n\"The Piave line still holds--and General Byng has won a splendid\nvictory at Cambrai. I did run up the flag for that--but Susan only\nsaid 'I shall set a kettle of water on the kitchen range tonight.\nI notice little Kitchener always has an attack of croup after any\nBritish victory. I do hope he has no pro-German blood in his veins.\nNobody knows much about his father's people.'\n\n\"Jims has had a few attacks of croup this fall--just the ordinary\ncroup--not that terrible thing he had last year. But whatever blood\nruns in his little veins it is good, healthy blood. He is rosy and\nplump and curly and cute; and he says such funny things and asks such\ncomical questions. He likes very much to sit in a special chair in the\nkitchen; but that is Susan's favourite chair, too, and when she wants\nit, out Jims must go. The last time she put him out of it he turned\naround and asked solemnly, 'When you are dead, Susan, can I sit in that\nchair?' Susan thought it quite dreadful, and I think that was when she\nbegan to feel anxiety about his possible ancestry. The other night I\ntook Jims with me for a walk down to the store. It was the first time\nhe had ever been out so late at night, and when he saw the stars he\nexclaimed, 'Oh, Willa, see the big moon and all the little moons!' And\nlast Wednesday morning, when he woke up, my little alarm clock had\nstopped because I had forgotten to wind it up. Jims bounded out of his\ncrib and ran across to me, his face quite aghast above his little blue\nflannel pyjamas. 'The clock is dead,' he gasped, 'oh Willa, the clock\nis dead.'\n\n\"One night he was quite angry with both Susan and me because we would\nnot give him something he wanted very much. When he said his prayers he\nplumped down wrathfully, and when he came to the petition 'Make me a\ngood boy' he tacked on emphatically, 'and please make Willa and Susan\ngood, 'cause they're not.'\n\n\"I don't go about quoting Jims's speeches to all I meet. That always\nbores me when other people do it! I just enshrine them in this old\nhotch-potch of a journal!\n\n\"This very evening as I put Jims to bed he looked up and asked me\ngravely, 'Why can't yesterday come back, Willa?'\n\n\"Oh, why can't it, Jims? That beautiful 'yesterday' of dreams and\nlaughter--when our boys were home--when Walter and I read and rambled\nand watched new moons and sunsets together in Rainbow Valley. If it\ncould just come back! But yesterdays never come back, little Jims--and\nthe todays are dark with clouds--and we dare not think about the\ntomorrows.\"\n\n\n11th December 1917\n\n\"Wonderful news came today. The British troops captured Jerusalem\nyesterday. We ran up the flag and some of Gertrude's old sparkle\ncame back to her for a moment.\n\n\"'After all,' she said, 'it is worth while to live in the days which\nsee the object of the Crusades attained. The ghosts of all the\nCrusaders must have crowded the walls of Jerusalem last night, with\nCoeur-de-lion at their head.'\n\n\"Susan had cause for satisfaction also.\n\n\"'I am so thankful I can pronounce Jerusalem and Hebron,' she said.\n'They give me a real comfortable feeling after Przemysl and\nBrest-Litovsk! Well, we have got the Turks on the run, at least, and\nVenice is safe and Lord Lansdowne is not to be taken seriously; and I\nsee no reason why we should be downhearted.'\n\n\"Jerusalem! The 'meteor flag of England!' floats over you--the Crescent\nis gone. How Walter would have thrilled over that!\"\n\n\n18th December 1917\n\n\"Yesterday the election came off. In the evening mother and Susan\nand Gertrude and I forgathered in the living-room and waited in\nbreathless suspense, father having gone down to the village. We had\nno way of hearing the news, for Carter Flagg's store is not on our\nline, and when we tried to get it Central always answered that the\nline 'was busy'--as no doubt it was, for everybody for miles around was\ntrying to get Carter's store for the same reason we were.\n\n\"About ten o'clock Gertrude went to the 'phone and happened to catch\nsomeone from over-harbour talking to Carter Flagg. Gertrude shamelessly\nlistened in and got for her comforting what eavesdroppers are\nproverbially supposed to get--to wit, unpleasant hearing; the Union\nGovernment had 'done nothing' in the West.\n\n\"We looked at each other in dismay. If the Government had failed to\ncarry the West, it was defeated.\n\n\"'Canada is disgraced in the eyes of the world,' said Gertrude bitterly.\n\n\"'If everybody was like the Mark Crawfords over-harbour this would not\nhave happened,' groaned Susan. 'They locked their Uncle up in the barn\nthis morning and would not let him out until he promised to vote Union.\nThat is what I call effective argument, Mrs. Dr. dear.'\n\n\"Gertrude and I couldn't rest after all that. We walked the floor until\nour legs gave out and we had to sit down perforce. Mother knitted away\nas steadily as clockwork and pretended to be calm and serene--pretended\nso well that we were all deceived and envious until the next day, when\nI caught her ravelling out four inches of her sock. She had knit that\nfar past where the heel should have begun!\n\n\"It was twelve before father came home. He stood in the doorway and\nlooked at us and we looked at him. We did not dare ask him what the\nnews was. Then he said that it was Laurier who had 'done nothing' in\nthe West, and that the Union Government was in with a big majority.\nGertrude clapped her hands. I wanted to laugh and cry, mother's eyes\nflashed with their old-time starriness and Susan emitted a queer sound\nbetween a gasp and a whoop.\n\n\"This will not comfort the Kaiser much,' she said.\n\n\"Then we went to bed, but were too excited to sleep. Really, as Susan\nsaid solemnly this morning, 'Mrs. Dr. dear, I think politics are too\nstrenuous for women.'\"\n\n\n31st December 1917\n\n\"Our fourth War Christmas is over. We are trying to gather up some\ncourage wherewith to face another year of it. Germany has, for the most\npart, been victorious all summer. And now they say she has all her\ntroops from the Russian front ready for a 'big push' in the spring.\nSometimes it seems to me that we just cannot live through the winter\nwaiting for that.\n\n\"I had a great batch of letters from overseas this week. Shirley is at\nthe front now, too, and writes about it all as coolly and\nmatter-of-factly as he used to write of football at Queen's. Carl wrote\nthat it had been raining for weeks and that nights in the trenches\nalways made him think of the night of long ago when he did penance in\nthe graveyard for running away from Henry Warren's ghost. Carl's\nletters are always full of jokes and bits of fun. They had a great\nrat-hunt the night before he wrote--spearing rats with their\nbayonets--and he got the best bag and won the prize. He has a tame rat\nthat knows him and sleeps in his pocket at night. Rats don't worry Carl\nas they do some people--he was always chummy with all little beasts. He\nsays he is making a study of the habits of the trench rat and means to\nwrite a treatise on it some day that will make him famous.\n\n\"Ken wrote a short letter. His letters are all rather short now--and he\ndoesn't often slip in those dear little sudden sentences I love so\nmuch. Sometimes I think he has forgotten all about the night he was\nhere to say goodbye--and then there will be just a line or a word that\nmakes me think he remembers and always will remember. For instance\nto-day's letter hadn't a thing in it that mightn't have been written to\nany girl, except that he signed himself 'Your Kenneth,' instead of\n'Yours, Kenneth,' as he usually does. Now, did he leave that 's' off\nintentionally or was it only carelessness? I shall lie awake half the\nnight wondering. He is a captain now. I am glad and proud--and yet\nCaptain Ford sounds so horribly far away and high up. Ken and Captain\nFord seem like two different persons. I may be practically engaged to\nKen--mother's opinion on that point is my stay and bulwark--but I can't\nbe to Captain Ford!\n\n\"And Jem is a lieutenant now--won his promotion on the field. He sent\nme a snap-shot, taken in his new uniform. He looked thin and\nold--old--my boy-brother Jem. I can't forget mother's face when I\nshowed it to her. 'That--my little Jem--the baby of the old House of\nDreams?' was all she said.\n\n\"There was a letter from Faith, too. She is doing V.A.D. work in\nEngland and writes hopefully and brightly. I think she is almost\nhappy--she saw Jem on his last leave and she is so near him she could\ngo to him, if he were wounded. That means so much to her. Oh, if I were\nonly with her! But my work is here at home. I know Walter wouldn't have\nwanted me to leave mother and in everything I try to 'keep faith' with\nhim, even to the little details of daily life. Walter died for\nCanada--I must live for her. That is what he asked me to do.\"\n\n\n28th January 1918\n\n\"'I shall anchor my storm-tossed soul to the British\nfleet and make a batch of bran biscuits,' said Susan today to Cousin\nSophia, who had come in with some weird tale of a new and\nall-conquering submarine, just launched by Germany. But Susan is a\nsomewhat disgruntled woman at present, owing to the regulations\nregarding cookery. Her loyalty to the Union Government is being sorely\ntried. It surmounted the first strain gallantly. When the order about\nflour came Susan said, quite cheerfully, 'I am an old dog to be\nlearning new tricks, but I shall learn to make war bread if it will\nhelp defeat the Huns.'\n\n\"But the later suggestions went against Susan's grain. Had it not been\nfor father's decree I think she would have snapped her fingers at Sir\nRobert Borden.\n\n\"'Talk about trying to make bricks without straw, Mrs. Dr. dear! How am\nI to make a cake without butter or sugar? It cannot be done--not cake\nthat is cake. Of course one can make a slab, Mrs. Dr. dear. And we\ncannot even camooflash it with a little icing! To think that I should\nhave lived to see the day when a government at Ottawa should step into\nmy kitchen and put me on rations!'\n\n\"Susan would give the last drop of her blood for her 'king and\ncountry,' but to surrender her beloved recipes is a very different and\nmuch more serious matter.\n\n\"I had letters from Nan and Di too--or rather notes. They are too busy\nto write letters, for exams are looming up. They will graduate in Arts\nthis spring. I am evidently to be the dunce of the family. But somehow\nI never had any hankering for a college course, and even now it doesn't\nappeal to me. I'm afraid I'm rather devoid of ambition. There is only\none thing I really want to be--and I don't know if I'll be it or not.\nIf not--I don't want to be anything. But I shan't write it down. It is\nall right to think it; but, as Cousin Sophia would say, it might be\nbrazen to write it down.\n\n\"I will write it down. I won't be cowed by the conventions and Cousin\nSophia! I want to be Kenneth Ford's wife! There now!\n\n\"I've just looked in the glass, and I hadn't the sign of a blush on my\nface. I suppose I'm not a properly constructed damsel at all.\n\n\"I was down to see little Dog Monday today. He has grown quite stiff\nand rheumatic but there he sat, waiting for the train. He thumped his\ntail and looked pleadingly into my eyes. 'When will Jem come?' he\nseemed to say. Oh, Dog Monday, there is no answer to that question; and\nthere is, as yet, no answer to the other which we are all constantly\nasking 'What will happen when Germany strikes again on the western\nfront--her one great, last blow for victory!\"\n\n\n1st March 1918\n\n\"'What will spring bring?' Gertrude said today. 'I dread it as I\nnever dreaded spring before. Do you suppose there will ever again\ncome a time when life will be free from fear? For almost four years\nwe have lain down with fear and risen up with it. It has been the\nunbidden guest at every meal, the unwelcome companion at every\ngathering.'\n\n\"'Hindenburg says he will be in Paris on 1st April,' sighed Cousin\nSophia.\n\n\"'Hindenburg!' There is no power in pen and ink to express the contempt\nwhich Susan infused into that name. 'Has he forgotten what day the\nfirst of April is?'\n\n\"'Hindenburg has kept his word hitherto,' said Gertrude, as gloomily as\nCousin Sophia herself could have said it.\n\n\"'Yes, fighting against the Russians and Rumanians,' retorted Susan.\n'Wait you till he comes up against the British and French, not to speak\nof the Yankees, who are getting there as fast as they can and will no\ndoubt give a good account of themselves.'\n\n\"'You said just the same thing before Mons, Susan,' I reminded her.\n\n\"'Hindenburg says he will spend a million lives to break the Allied\nfront,' said Gertrude. 'At such a price he must purchase some successes\nand how can we live through them, even if he is baffled in the end.\nThese past two months when we have been crouching and waiting for the\nblow to fall have seemed as long as all the preceding months of the war\nput together. I work all day feverishly and waken at three o'clock at\nnight to wonder if the iron legions have struck at last. It is then I\nsee Hindenburg in Paris and Germany triumphant. I never see her so at\nany other time than that accursed hour.'\n\n\"Susan looked dubious over Gertrude's adjective, but evidently\nconcluded that the 'a' saved the situation.\n\n\"'I wish it were possible to take some magic draught and go to sleep\nfor the next three months--and then waken to find Armageddon over,'\nsaid mother, almost impatiently.\n\n\"It is not often that mother slumps into a wish like that--or at least\nthe verbal expression of it. Mother has changed a great deal since that\nterrible day in September when we knew that Walter would not come back;\nbut she has always been brave and patient. Now it seemed as if even she\nhad reached the limit of her endurance.\n\n\"Susan went over to mother and touched her shoulder.\n\n\"'Do not you be frightened or downhearted, Mrs. Dr. dear,' she said\ngently. 'I felt somewhat that way myself last night, and I rose from my\nbed and lighted my lamp and opened my Bible; and what do you think was\nthe first verse my eyes lighted upon? It was 'And they shall fight\nagainst thee but they shall not prevail against thee, for I am with\nthee, saith the Lord of Hosts, to deliver thee.' I am not gifted in the\nway of dreaming, as Miss Oliver is, but I knew then and there, Mrs. Dr.\ndear, that it was a manifest leading, and that Hindenburg will never\nsee Paris. So I read no further but went back to my bed and I did not\nwaken at three o'clock or at any other hour before morning.'\n\n\"I say that verse Susan read over and over again to myself. The Lord of\nHosts is with us--and the spirits of all just men made perfect--and\neven the legions and guns that Germany is massing on the western front\nmust break against such a barrier. This is in certain uplifted moments;\nbut when other moments come I feel, like Gertrude, that I cannot endure\nany longer this awful and ominous hush before the coming storm.\"\n\n\n23rd March 1918\n\n\"Armageddon has begun!--'the last great fight of all!' Is it, I\nwonder? Yesterday I went down to the post office for the mail. It\nwas a dull, bitter day. The snow was gone but the grey, lifeless\nground was frozen hard and a biting wind was blowing. The whole Glen\nlandscape was ugly and hopeless.\n\n\"Then I got the paper with its big black headlines. Germany struck on\nthe twenty-first. She makes big claims of guns and prisoners taken.\nGeneral Haig reports that 'severe fighting continues.' I don't like the\nsound of that last expression.\n\n\"We all find we cannot do any work that requires concentration of\nthought. So we all knit furiously, because we can do that mechanically.\nAt least the dreadful waiting is over--the horrible wondering where and\nwhen the blow will fall. It has fallen--but they shall not prevail\nagainst us!\n\n\"Oh, what is happening on the western front tonight as I write this,\nsitting here in my room with my journal before me? Jims is asleep in\nhis crib and the wind is wailing around the window; over my desk hangs\nWalter's picture, looking at me with his beautiful deep eyes; the Mona\nLisa he gave me the last Christmas he was home hangs on one side of it,\nand on the other a framed copy of \"The Piper.\" It seems to me that I\ncan hear Walter's voice repeating it--that little poem into which he\nput his soul, and which will therefore live for ever, carrying Walter's\nname on through the future of our land. Everything about me is calm and\npeaceful and 'homey.' Walter seems very near me--if I could just sweep\naside the thin wavering little veil that hangs between, I could see\nhim--just as he saw the Pied Piper the night before Courcelette.\n\n\"Over there in France tonight--does the line hold?\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nBLACK SUNDAY\n\nIn March of the year of grace 1918 there was one week into which must\nhave crowded more of searing human agony than any seven days had ever\nheld before in the history of the world. And in that week there was one\nday when all humanity seemed nailed to the cross; on that day the whole\nplanet must have been agroan with universal convulsion; everywhere the\nhearts of men were failing them for fear.\n\nIt dawned calmly and coldly and greyly at Ingleside. Mrs. Blythe and\nRilla and Miss Oliver made ready for church in a suspense tempered by\nhope and confidence. The doctor was away, having been summoned during\nthe wee sma's to the Marwood household in Upper Glen, where a little\nwar-bride was fighting gallantly on her own battleground to give life,\nnot death, to the world. Susan announced that she meant to stay home\nthat morning--a rare decision for Susan.\n\n\"But I would rather not go to church this morning, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" she\nexplained. \"If Whiskers-on-the-moon were there and I saw him looking\nholy and pleased, as he always looks when he thinks the Huns are\nwinning, I fear I would lose my patience and my sense of decorum and\nhurl a Bible or hymn-book at him, thereby disgracing myself and the\nsacred edifice. No, Mrs. Dr. dear, I shall stay home from church till\nthe tide turns and pray hard here.\"\n\n\"I think I might as well stay home, too, for all the good church will\ndo me today,\" Miss Oliver said to Rilla, as they walked down the\nhard-frozen red road to the church. \"I can think of nothing but the\nquestion, 'Does the line still hold?'\"\n\n\"Next Sunday will be Easter,\" said Rilla. \"Will it herald death or life\nto our cause?\"\n\nMr. Meredith preached that morning from the text, \"He that endureth to\nthe end shall be saved,\" and hope and confidence rang through his\ninspiring sentences. Rilla, looking up at the memorial tablet on the\nwall above their pew, \"sacred to the memory of Walter Cuthbert Blythe,\"\nfelt herself lifted out of her dread and filled anew with courage.\nWalter could not have laid down his life for naught. His had been the\ngift of prophetic vision and he had foreseen victory. She would cling\nto that belief--the line would hold.\n\nIn this renewed mood she walked home from church almost gaily. The\nothers, too, were hopeful, and all went smiling into Ingleside. There\nwas no one in the living-room, save Jims, who had fallen asleep on the\nsofa, and Doc, who sat \"hushed in grim repose\" on the hearth-rug,\nlooking very Hydeish indeed. No one was in the dining-room either--and,\nstranger still, no dinner was on the table, which was not even set.\nWhere was Susan?\n\n\"Can she have taken ill?\" exclaimed Mrs. Blythe anxiously. \"I thought\nit strange that she did not want to go to church this morning.\"\n\nThe kitchen door opened and Susan appeared on the threshold with such a\nghastly face that Mrs. Blythe cried out in sudden panic.\n\n\"Susan, what is it?\"\n\n\"The British line is broken and the German shells are falling on\nParis,\" said Susan dully.\n\nThe three women stared at each other, stricken.\n\n\"It's not true--it's not,\" gasped Rilla.\n\n\"The thing would be--ridiculous,\" said Gertrude Oliver--and then she\nlaughed horribly.\n\n\"Susan, who told you this--when did the news come?\" asked Mrs. Blythe.\n\n\"I got it over the long-distance phone from Charlottetown half an hour\nago,\" said Susan. \"The news came to town late last night. It was Dr.\nHolland phoned it out and he said it was only too true. Since then I\nhave done nothing, Mrs. Dr. dear. I am very sorry dinner is not ready.\nIt is the first time I have been so remiss. If you will be patient I\nwill soon have something for you to eat. But I am afraid I let the\npotatoes burn.\"\n\n\"Dinner! Nobody wants any dinner, Susan,\" said Mrs. Blythe wildly. \"Oh,\nthis thing is unbelievable--it must be a nightmare.\"\n\n\"Paris is lost--France is lost--the war is lost,\" gasped Rilla, amid\nthe utter ruins of hope and confidence and belief.\n\n\"Oh God--Oh God,\" moaned Gertrude Oliver, walking about the room and\nwringing her hands, \"Oh--God!\"\n\nNothing else--no other words--nothing but that age old plea--the old,\nold cry of supreme agony and appeal, from the human heart whose every\nhuman staff has failed it.\n\n\"Is God dead?\" asked a startled little voice from the doorway of the\nliving-room. Jims stood there, flushed from sleep, his big brown eyes\nfilled with dread, \"Oh Willa--oh, Willa, is God dead?\"\n\nMiss Oliver stopped walking and exclaiming, and stared at Jims, in\nwhose eyes tears of fright were beginning to gather. Rilla ran to his\ncomforting, while Susan bounded up from the chair upon which she had\ndropped.\n\n\"No,\" she said briskly, with a sudden return of her real self. \"No, God\nisn't dead--nor Lloyd George either. We were forgetting that, Mrs. Dr.\ndear. Don't cry, little Kitchener. Bad as things are, they might be\nworse. The British line may be broken but the British navy is not. Let\nus tie to that. I will take a brace and get up a bite to eat, for\nstrength we must have.\"\n\nThey made a pretence of eating Susan's \"bite,\" but it was only a\npretence. Nobody at Ingleside ever forgot that black afternoon.\nGertrude Oliver walked the floor--they all walked the floor; except\nSusan, who got out her grey war sock.\n\n\"Mrs. Dr. dear, I must knit on Sunday at last. I have never dreamed of\ndoing it before for, say what might be said, I have considered it was a\nviolation of the third commandment. But whether it is or whether it is\nnot I must knit today or I shall go mad.\"\n\n\"Knit if you can, Susan,\" said Mrs. Blythe restlessly. \"I would knit if\nI could--but I cannot--I cannot.\"\n\n\"If we could only get fuller information,\" moaned Rilla. \"There might\nbe something to encourage us--if we knew all.\"\n\n\"We know that the Germans are shelling Paris,\" said Miss Oliver\nbitterly. \"In that case they must have smashed through everywhere and\nbe at the very gates. No, we have lost--let us face the fact as other\npeoples in the past have had to face it. Other nations, with right on\ntheir side, have given their best and bravest--and gone down to defeat\nin spite of it. Ours is 'but one more To baffled millions who have gone\nbefore.'\"\n\n\"I won't give up like that,\" cried Rilla, her pale face suddenly\nflushing. \"I won't despair. We are not conquered--no, if Germany\noverruns all France we are not conquered. I am ashamed of myself for\nthis hour of despair. You won't see me slump again like that, I'm going\nto ring up town at once and ask for particulars.\"\n\nBut town could not be got. The long-distance operator there was\nsubmerged by similar calls from every part of the distracted country.\nRilla finally gave up and slipped away to Rainbow Valley. There she\nknelt down on the withered grey grasses in the little nook where she\nand Walter had had their last talk together, with her head bowed\nagainst the mossy trunk of a fallen tree. The sun had broken through\nthe black clouds and drenched the valley with a pale golden splendour.\nThe bells on the Tree Lovers twinkled elfinly and fitfully in the gusty\nMarch wind.\n\n\"Oh God, give me strength,\" Rilla whispered. \"Just strength--and\ncourage.\" Then like a child she clasped her hands together and said, as\nsimply as Jims could have done, \"Please send us better news tomorrow.\"\n\nShe knelt there a long time, and when she went back to Ingleside she\nwas calm and resolute. The doctor had arrived home, tired but\ntriumphant, little Douglas Haig Marwood having made a safe landing on\nthe shores of time. Gertrude was still pacing restlessly but Mrs.\nBlythe and Susan had reacted from the shock, and Susan was already\nplanning a new line of defence for the channel ports.\n\n\"As long as we can hold them,\" she declared, \"the situation is saved.\nParis has really no military significance.\"\n\n\"Don't,\" said Gertrude sharply, as if Susan had run something into her.\nShe thought the old worn phrase 'no military significance' nothing\nshort of ghastly mockery under the circumstances, and more terrible to\nendure than the voice of despair would have been.\n\n\"I heard up at Marwood's of the line being broken,\" said the doctor,\n\"but this story of the Germans shelling Paris seems to be rather\nincredible. Even if they broke through they were fifty miles from Paris\nat the nearest point and how could they get their artillery close\nenough to shell it in so short a time? Depend upon it, girls, that part\nof the message can't be true. I'm going to try to try a long-distance\ncall to town myself.\"\n\nThe doctor was no more successful than Rilla had been, but his point of\nview cheered them all a little, and helped them through the evening.\nAnd at nine o'clock a long-distance message came through at last, that\nhelped them through the night.\n\n\"The line broke only in one place, before St. Quentin,\" said the\ndoctor, as he hung up the receiver, \"and the British troops are\nretreating in good order. That's not so bad. As for the shells that are\nfalling on Paris, they are coming from a distance of seventy\nmiles--from some amazing long-range gun the Germans have invented and\nsprung with the opening offensive. That is all the news to date, and\nDr. Holland says it is reliable.\"\n\n\"It would have been dreadful news yesterday,\" said Gertrude, \"but\ncompared to what we heard this morning it is almost like good news. But\nstill,\" she added, trying to smile, \"I am afraid I will not sleep much\ntonight.\"\n\n\"There is one thing to be thankful for at any rate, Miss Oliver, dear,\"\nsaid Susan, \"and that is that Cousin Sophia did not come in today. I\nreally could not have endured her on top of all the rest.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\n\"WOUNDED AND MISSING\"\n\n\"Battered but Not Broken\" was the headline in Monday's paper, and Susan\nrepeated it over and over to herself as she went about her work. The\ngap caused by the St. Quentin disaster had been patched up in time, but\nthe Allied line was being pushed relentlessly back from the territory\nthey had purchased in 1917 with half a million lives. On Wednesday the\nheadline was \"British and French Check Germans\"; but still the retreat\nwent on. Back--and back--and back! Where would it end? Would the line\nbreak again--this time disastrously?\n\nOn Saturday the headline was \"Even Berlin Admits Offensive Checked,\"\nand for the first time in that terrible week the Ingleside folk dared\nto draw a long breath.\n\n\"Well, we have got one week over--now for the next,\" said Susan\nstaunchly.\n\n\"I feel like a prisoner on the rack when they stopped turning it,\" Miss\nOliver said to Rilla, as they went to church on Easter morning. \"But I\nam not off the rack. The torture may begin again at any time.\"\n\n\"I doubted God last Sunday,\" said Rilla, \"but I don't doubt him today.\nEvil cannot win. Spirit is on our side and it is bound to outlast\nflesh.\"\n\nNevertheless her faith was often tried in the dark spring that\nfollowed. Armageddon was not, as they had hoped, a matter of a few\ndays. It stretched out into weeks and months. Again and again\nHindenburg struck his savage, sudden blows, with alarming, though\nfutile success. Again and again the military critics declared the\nsituation extremely perilous. Again and again Cousin Sophia agreed with\nthe military critics.\n\n\"If the Allies go back three miles more the war is lost,\" she wailed.\n\n\"Is the British navy anchored in those three miles?\" demanded Susan\nscornfully.\n\n\"It is the opinion of a man who knows all about it,\" said Cousin Sophia\nsolemnly.\n\n\"There is no such person,\" retorted Susan. \"As for the military\ncritics, they do not know one blessed thing about it, any more than you\nor I. They have been mistaken times out of number. Why do you always\nlook on the dark side, Sophia Crawford?\"\n\n\"Because there ain't any bright side, Susan Baker.\"\n\n\"Oh, is there not? It is the twentieth of April, and Hindy is not in\nParis yet, although he said he would be there by April first. Is that\nnot a bright spot at least?\"\n\n\"It is my opinion that the Germans will be in Paris before very long\nand more than that, Susan Baker, they will be in Canada.\"\n\n\"Not in this part of it. The Huns shall never set foot in Prince Edward\nIsland as long as I can handle a pitchfork,\" declared Susan, looking,\nand feeling quite equal to routing the entire German army\nsingle-handed. \"No, Sophia Crawford, to tell you the plain truth I am\nsick and tired of your gloomy predictions. I do not deny that some\nmistakes have been made. The Germans would never have got back\nPasschendaele if the Canadians had been left there; and it was bad\nbusiness trusting to those Portuguese at the Lys River. But that is no\nreason why you or anyone should go about proclaiming the war is lost. I\ndo not want to quarrel with you, least of all at such a time as this,\nbut our morale must be kept up, and I am going to speak my mind out\nplainly and tell you that if you cannot keep from such croaking your\nroom is better than your company.\"\n\nCousin Sophia marched home in high dudgeon to digest her affront, and\ndid not reappear in Susan's kitchen for many weeks. Perhaps it was just\nas well, for they were hard weeks, when the Germans continued to\nstrike, now here, now there, and seemingly vital points fell to them at\nevery blow. And one day in early May, when wind and sunshine frolicked\nin Rainbow Valley and the maple grove was golden-green and the harbour\nall blue and dimpled and white-capped, the news came about Jem.\n\nThere had been a trench raid on the Canadian front--a little trench\nraid so insignificant that it was never even mentioned in the\ndispatches and when it was over Lieutenant James Blythe was reported\n\"wounded and missing.\"\n\n\"I think this is even worse than the news of his death would have\nbeen,\" moaned Rilla through her white lips, that night.\n\n\"No--no--'missing' leaves a little hope, Rilla,\" urged Gertrude Oliver.\n\n\"Yes--torturing, agonized hope that keeps you from ever becoming quite\nresigned to the worst,\" said Rilla. \"Oh, Miss Oliver--must we go for\nweeks and months--not knowing whether Jem is alive or dead? Perhaps we\nwill never know. I--I cannot bear it--I cannot. Walter--and now Jem.\nThis will kill mother--look at her face, Miss Oliver, and you will see\nthat. And Faith--poor Faith--how can she bear it?\"\n\nGertrude shivered with pain. She looked up at the pictures hanging over\nRilla's desk and felt a sudden hatred of Mona Lisa's endless smile.\n\n\"Will not even this blot it off your face?\" she thought savagely.\n\nBut she said gently, \"No, it won't kill your mother. She's made of\nfiner mettle than that. Besides, she refuses to believe Jem is dead;\nshe will cling to hope and we must all do that. Faith, you may be sure,\nwill do it.\"\n\n\"I cannot,\" moaned Rilla, \"Jem was wounded--what chance would he have?\nEven if the Germans found him--we know how they have treated wounded\nprisoners. I wish I could hope, Miss Oliver--it would help, I suppose.\nBut hope seems dead in me. I can't hope without some reason for it--and\nthere is no reason.\"\n\nWhen Miss Oliver had gone to her own room and Rilla was lying on her\nbed in the moonlight, praying desperately for a little strength, Susan\nstepped in like a gaunt shadow and sat down beside her.\n\n\"Rilla, dear, do not you worry. Little Jem is not dead.\"\n\n\"Oh, how can you believe that, Susan?\"\n\n\"Because I know. Listen you to me. When that word came this morning the\nfirst thing I thought of was Dog Monday. And tonight, as soon as I got\nthe supper dishes washed and the bread set, I went down to the station.\nThere was Dog Monday, waiting for the train, just as patient as usual.\nNow, Rilla, dear, that trench raid was four days ago--last Monday--and\nI said to the station-agent, 'Can you tell me if that dog howled or\nmade any kind of a fuss last Monday night?' He thought it over a bit,\nand then he said, 'No, he did not.' 'Are you sure?' I said. 'There's\nmore depends on it than you think!' 'Dead sure,' he said. 'I was up all\nnight last Monday night because my mare was sick, and there was never a\nsound out of him. I would have heard if there had been, for the stable\ndoor was open all the time and his kennel is right across from it!' Now\nRilla dear, those were the man's very words. And you know how that poor\nlittle dog howled all night after the battle of Courcelette. Yet he did\nnot love Walter as much as he loved Jem. If he mourned for Walter like\nthat, do you suppose he would sleep sound in his kennel the night after\nJem had been killed? No, Rilla dear, little Jem is not dead, and that\nyou may tie to. If he were, Dog Monday would have known, just as he\nknew before, and he would not be still waiting for the trains.\"\n\nIt was absurd--and irrational--and impossible. But Rilla believed it,\nfor all that; and Mrs. Blythe believed it; and the doctor, though he\nsmiled faintly in pretended derision, felt an odd confidence replace\nhis first despair; and foolish and absurd or not, they all plucked up\nheart and courage to carry on, just because a faithful little dog at\nthe Glen station was still watching with unbroken faith for his master\nto come home. Common sense might scorn--incredulity might mutter \"Mere\nsuperstition\"--but in their hearts the folk of Ingleside stood by their\nbelief that Dog Monday knew.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nTHE TURNING OF THE TIDE\n\nSusan was very sorrowful when she saw the beautiful old lawn of\nIngleside ploughed up that spring and planted with potatoes. Yet she\nmade no protest, even when her beloved peony bed was sacrificed. But\nwhen the Government passed the Daylight Saving law Susan balked. There\nwas a Higher Power than the Union Government, to which Susan owed\nallegiance.\n\n\"Do you think it right to meddle with the arrangements of the\nAlmighty?\" she demanded indignantly of the doctor. The doctor, quite\nunmoved, responded that the law must be observed, and the Ingleside\nclocks were moved on accordingly. But the doctor had no power over\nSusan's little alarm.\n\n\"I bought that with my own money, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" she said firmly, \"and\nit shall go on God's time and not Borden's time.\"\n\nSusan got up and went to bed by \"God's time,\" and regulated her own\ngoings and comings by it. She served the meals, under protest, by\nBorden's time, and she had to go to church by it, which was the\ncrowning injury. But she said her prayers by her own clock, and fed the\nhens by it; so that there was always a furtive triumph in her eye when\nshe looked at the doctor. She had got the better of him by so much at\nleast.\n\n\"Whiskers-on-the-moon is very much delighted with this daylight saving\nbusiness,\" she told him one evening. \"Of course he naturally would be,\nsince I understand that the Germans invented it. I hear he came near\nlosing his entire wheat-crop lately. Warren Mead's cows broke into the\nfield one day last week--it was the very day the Germans captured the\nChemang-de-dam, which may have been a coincidence or may not--and were\nmaking fine havoc of it when Mrs. Dick Clow happened to see them from\nher attic window. At first she had no intention of letting Mr. Pryor\nknow. She told me she had just gloated over the sight of those cows\npasturing on his wheat. She felt it served him exactly right. But\npresently she reflected that the wheat-crop was a matter of great\nimportance and that 'save and serve' meant that those cows must be\nrouted out as much as it meant anything. So she went down and phoned\nover to Whiskers about the matter. All the thanks she got was that he\nsaid something queer right out to her. She is not prepared to state\nthat it was actually swearing for you cannot be sure just what you hear\nover the phone; but she has her own opinion, and so have I, but I will\nnot express it for here comes Mr. Meredith, and Whiskers is one of his\nelders, so we must be discreet.\"\n\n\"Are you looking for the new star?\" asked Mr. Meredith, joining Miss\nOliver and Rilla, who were standing among the blossoming potatoes\ngazing skyward.\n\n\"Yes--we have found it--see, it is just above the tip of the tallest\nold pine.\"\n\n\"It's wonderful to be looking at something that happened three thousand\nyears ago, isn't it?\" said Rilla. \"That is when astronomers think the\ncollision took place which produced this new star. It makes me feel\nhorribly insignificant,\" she added under her breath.\n\n\"Even this event cannot dwarf into what may be the proper perspective\nin star systems the fact that the Germans are again only one leap from\nParis,\" said Gertrude restlessly.\n\n\"I think I would like to have been an astronomer,\" said Mr. Meredith\ndreamily, gazing at the star.\n\n\"There must be a strange pleasure in it,\" agreed Miss Oliver, \"an\nunearthly pleasure, in more senses than one. I would like to have a few\nastronomers for my friends.\"\n\n\"Fancy talking the gossip of the hosts of heaven,\" laughed Rilla.\n\n\"I wonder if astronomers feel a very deep interest in earthly affairs?\"\nsaid the doctor. \"Perhaps students of the canals of Mars would not be\nso keenly sensitive to the significance of a few yards of trenches lost\nor won on the western front.\"\n\n\"I have read somewhere,\" said Mr. Meredith, \"that Ernest Renan wrote\none of his books during the siege of Paris in 1870 and 'enjoyed the\nwriting of it very much.' I suppose one would call him a philosopher.\"\n\n\"I have read also,\" said Miss Oliver, \"that shortly before his death he\nsaid that his only regret in dying was that he must die before he had\nseen what that 'extremely interesting young man, the German Emperor,'\nwould do in his life. If Ernest Renan 'walked' today and saw what that\ninteresting young man had done to his beloved France, not to speak of\nthe world, I wonder if his mental detachment would be as complete as it\nwas in 1870.\"\n\n\"I wonder where Jem is tonight,\" thought Rilla, in a sudden bitter\ninrush of remembrance.\n\nIt was over a month since the news had come about Jem. Nothing had been\ndiscovered concerning him, in spite of all efforts. Two or three\nletters had come from him, written before the trench raid, and since\nthen there had been only unbroken silence. Now the Germans were again\nat the Marne, pressing nearer and nearer Paris; now rumours were coming\nof another Austrian offensive against the Piave line. Rilla turned away\nfrom the new star, sick at heart. It was one of the moments when hope\nand courage failed her utterly--when it seemed impossible to go on even\none more day. If only they knew what had happened to Jem--you can face\nanything you know. But a beleaguerment of fear and doubt and suspense\nis a hard thing for the morale. Surely, if Jem were alive, some word\nwould have come through. He must be dead. Only--they would never\nknow--they could never be quite sure; and Dog Monday would wait for the\ntrain until he died of old age. Monday was only a poor, faithful,\nrheumatic little dog, who knew nothing more of his master's fate than\nthey did.\n\nRilla had a \"white night\" and did not fall asleep until late. When she\nwakened Gertrude Oliver was sitting at her window leaning out to meet\nthe silver mystery of the dawn. Her clever, striking profile, with the\nmasses of black hair behind it, came out clearly against the pallid\ngold of the eastern sky. Rilla remembered Jem's admiration of the curve\nof Miss Oliver's brow and chin, and she shuddered. Everything that\nreminded her of Jem was beginning to give intolerable pain. Walter's\ndeath had inflicted on her heart a terrible wound. But it had been a\nclean wound and had healed slowly, as such wounds do, though the scar\nmust remain for ever. But the torture of Jem's disappearance was\nanother thing: there was a poison in it that kept it from healing. The\nalternations of hope and despair, the endless watching each day for the\nletter that never came--that might never come--the newspaper tales of\nill-usage of prisoners--the bitter wonder as to Jem's wound--all were\nincreasingly hard to bear.\n\nGertrude Oliver turned her head. There was an odd brilliancy in her\neyes.\n\n\"Rilla, I've had another dream.\"\n\n\"Oh, no--no,\" cried Rilla, shrinking. Miss Oliver's dreams had always\nforetold coming disaster.\n\n\"Rilla, it was a good dream. Listen--I dreamed just as I did four years\nago, that I stood on the veranda steps and looked down the Glen. And it\nwas still covered by waves that lapped about my feet. But as I looked\nthe waves began to ebb--and they ebbed as swiftly as, four years ago,\nthey rolled in--ebbed out and out, to the gulf; and the Glen lay before\nme, beautiful and green, with a rainbow spanning Rainbow Valley--a\nrainbow of such splendid colour that it dazzled me--and I woke.\nRilla--Rilla Blythe--the tide has turned.\"\n\n\"I wish I could believe it,\" sighed Rilla.\n\n \"Sooth was my prophecy of fear\n Believe it when it augurs cheer,\"\n\nquoted Gertrude, almost gaily. \"I tell you I have no doubt.\"\n\nYet, in spite of the great Italian victory at the Piave that came a few\ndays later, she had doubt many a time in the hard month that followed;\nand when in mid-July the Germans crossed the Marne again despair came\nsickeningly. It was idle, they all felt, to hope that the miracle of\nthe Marne would be repeated. But it was: again, as in 1914, the tide\nturned at the Marne. The French and the American troops struck their\nsudden smashing blow on the exposed flank of the enemy and, with the\nalmost inconceivable rapidity of a dream, the whole aspect of the war\nchanged.\n\n\"The Allies have won two tremendous victories,\" said the doctor on 20th\nJuly.\n\n\"It is the beginning of the end--I feel it--I feel it,\" said Mrs.\nBlythe.\n\n\"Thank God,\" said Susan, folding her trembling old hands, Then she\nadded, under her breath, \"but it won't bring our boys back.\"\n\nNevertheless she went out and ran up the flag, for the first time since\nthe fall of Jerusalem. As it caught the breeze and swelled gallantly\nout above her, Susan lifted her hand and saluted it, as she had seen\nShirley do. \"We've all given something to keep you flying,\" she said.\n\"Four hundred thousand of our boys gone overseas--fifty thousand of\nthem killed. But--you are worth it!\" The wind whipped her grey hair\nabout her face and the gingham apron that shrouded her from head to\nfoot was cut on lines of economy, not of grace; yet, somehow, just then\nSusan made an imposing figure. She was one of the women--courageous,\nunquailing, patient, heroic--who had made victory possible. In her,\nthey all saluted the symbol for which their dearest had fought.\nSomething of this was in the doctor's mind as he watched her from the\ndoor.\n\n\"Susan,\" he said, when she turned to come in, \"from first to last of\nthis business you have been a brick!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\nMRS. MATILDA PITTMAN\n\nRilla and Jims were standing on the rear platform of their car when the\ntrain stopped at the little Millward siding. The August evening was so\nhot and close that the crowded cars were stifling. Nobody ever knew\njust why trains stopped at Millward siding. Nobody was ever known to\nget off there or get on. There was only one house nearer to it than\nfour miles, and it was surrounded by acres of blueberry barrens and\nscrub spruce-trees.\n\nRilla was on her way into Charlottetown to spend the night with a\nfriend and the next day in Red Cross shopping; she had taken Jims with\nher, partly because she did not want Susan or her mother to be bothered\nwith his care, partly because of a hungry desire in her heart to have\nas much of him as she could before she might have to give him up\nforever. James Anderson had written to her not long before this; he was\nwounded and in the hospital; he would not be able to go back to the\nfront and as soon as he was able he would be coming home for Jims.\n\nRilla was heavy-hearted over this, and worried also. She loved Jims\ndearly and would feel deeply giving him up in any case; but if Jim\nAnderson were a different sort of a man, with a proper home for the\nchild, it would not be so bad. But to give Jims up to a roving,\nshiftless, irresponsible father, however kind and good-hearted he might\nbe--and she knew Jim Anderson was kind and good-hearted enough--was a\nbitter prospect to Rilla. It was not even likely Anderson would stay in\nthe Glen; he had no ties there now; he might even go back to England.\nShe might never see her dear, sunshiny, carefully brought-up little\nJims again. With such a father what might his fate be? Rilla meant to\nbeg Jim Anderson to leave him with her, but, from his letter, she had\nnot much hope that he would.\n\n\"If he would only stay in the Glen, where I could keep an eye on Jims\nand have him often with me I wouldn't feel so worried over it,\" she\nreflected. \"But I feel sure he won't--and Jims will never have any\nchance. And he is such a bright little chap--he has ambition, wherever\nhe got it--and he isn't lazy. But his father will never have a cent to\ngive him any education or start in life. Jims, my little war-baby,\nwhatever is going to become of you?\"\n\nJims was not in the least concerned over what was to become of him. He\nwas gleefully watching the antics of a striped chipmunk that was\nfrisking over the roof of the little siding. As the train pulled out\nJims leaned eagerly forward for a last look at Chippy, pulling his hand\nfrom Rilla's. Rilla was so engrossed in wondering what was to become of\nJims in the future that she forgot to take notice of what was happening\nto him in the present. What did happen was that Jims lost his balance,\nshot headlong down the steps, hurtled across the little siding\nplatform, and landed in a clump of bracken fern on the other side.\n\nRilla shrieked and lost her head. She sprang down the steps and jumped\noff the train.\n\nFortunately, the train was still going at a comparatively slow speed;\nfortunately also, Rilla retained enough sense to jump the way it was\ngoing; nevertheless, she fell and sprawled helplessly down the\nembankment, landing in a ditch full of a rank growth of golden-rod and\nfireweed.\n\nNobody had seen what had happened and the train whisked briskly away\nround a curve in the barrens. Rilla picked herself up, dizzy but\nunhurt, scrambled out of the ditch, and flew wildly across the\nplatform, expecting to find Jims dead or broken in pieces. But Jims,\nexcept for a few bruises, and a big fright, was quite uninjured. He was\nso badly scared that he didn't even cry, but Rilla, when she found that\nhe was safe and sound, burst into tears and sobbed wildly.\n\n\"Nasty old twain,\" remarked Jims in disgust. \"And nasty old God,\" he\nadded, with a scowl at the heavens.\n\nA laugh broke into Rilla's sobbing, producing something very like what\nher father would have called hysterics. But she caught herself up\nbefore the hysteria could conquer her.\n\n\"Rilla Blythe, I'm ashamed of you. Pull yourself together immediately.\nJims, you shouldn't have said anything like that.\"\n\n\"God frew me off the twain,\" declared Jims defiantly. \"Somebody frew\nme; you didn't frow me; so it was God.\"\n\n\"No, it wasn't. You fell because you let go of my hand and bent too far\nforward. I told you not to do that. So that it was your own fault.\"\n\nJims looked to see if she meant it; then glanced up at the sky again.\n\n\"Excuse me, then, God,\" he remarked airily.\n\nRilla scanned the sky also; she did not like its appearance; a heavy\nthundercloud was appearing in the northwest. What in the world was to\nbe done? There was no other train that night, since the nine o'clock\nspecial ran only on Saturdays. Would it be possible for them to reach\nHannah Brewster's house, two miles away, before the storm broke? Rilla\nthought she could do it alone easily enough, but with Jims it was\nanother matter. Were his little legs good for it?\n\n\"We've got to try it,\" said Rilla desperately. \"We might stay in the\nsiding until the thunderstorm is over; but it may keep on raining all\nnight and anyway it will be pitch dark. If we can get to Hannah's she\nwill keep us all night.\"\n\nHannah Brewster, when she had been Hannah Crawford, had lived in the\nGlen and gone to school with Rilla. They had been good friends then,\nthough Hannah had been three years the older. She had married very\nyoung and had gone to live in Millward. What with hard work and babies\nand a ne'er-do-well husband, her life had not been an easy one, and\nHannah seldom revisited her old home. Rilla had visited her once soon\nafter her marriage, but had not seen her or even heard of her for\nyears; she knew, however, that she and Jims would find welcome and\nharbourage in any house where rosy-faced, open-hearted, generous Hannah\nlived.\n\nFor the first mile they got on very well but the second one was harder.\nThe road, seldom used, was rough and deep-rutted. Jims grew so tired\nthat Rilla had to carry him for the last quarter. She reached the\nBrewster house, almost exhausted, and dropped Jims on the walk with a\nsigh of thankfulness. The sky was black with clouds; the first heavy\ndrops were beginning to fall; and the rumble of thunder was growing\nvery loud. Then she made an unpleasant discovery. The blinds were all\ndown and the doors locked. Evidently the Brewsters were not at home.\nRilla ran to the little barn. It, too, was locked. No other refuge\npresented itself. The bare whitewashed little house had not even a\nveranda or porch.\n\nIt was almost dark now and her plight seemed desperate.\n\n\"I'm going to get in if I have to break a window,\" said Rilla\nresolutely. \"Hannah would want me to do that. She'd never get over it\nif she heard I came to her house for refuge in a thunderstorm and\ncouldn't get in.\"\n\nLuckily she did not have to go to the length of actual housebreaking.\nThe kitchen window went up quite easily. Rilla lifted Jims in and\nscrambled through herself, just as the storm broke in good earnest.\n\n\"Oh, see all the little pieces of thunder,\" cried Jims in delight, as\nthe hail danced in after them. Rilla shut the window and with some\ndifficulty found and lighted a lamp. They were in a very snug little\nkitchen. Opening off it on one side was a trim, nicely furnished\nparlour, and on the other a pantry, which proved to be well stocked.\n\n\"I'm going to make myself at home,\" said Rilla. \"I know that is just\nwhat Hannah would want me to do. I'll get a little snack for Jims and\nme, and then if the rain continues and nobody comes home I'll just go\nupstairs to the spare room and go to bed. There is nothing like acting\nsensibly in an emergency. If I had not been a goose when I saw Jims\nfall off the train I'd have rushed back into the car and got some one\nto stop it. Then I wouldn't have been in this scrape. Since I am in it\nI'll make the best of it.\n\n\"This house,\" she added, looking around, \"is fixed up much nicer than\nwhen I was here before. Of course Hannah and Ted were just beginning\nhousekeeping then. But somehow I've had the idea that Ted hasn't been\nvery prosperous. He must have done better than I've been led to\nbelieve, when they can afford furniture like this. I'm awfully glad for\nHannah's sake.\"\n\nThe thunderstorm passed, but the rain continued to fall heavily. At\neleven o'clock Rilla decided that nobody was coming home. Jims had\nfallen asleep on the sofa; she carried him up to the spare room and put\nhim to bed. Then she undressed, put on a nightgown she found in the\nwashstand drawer, and scrambled sleepily in between very nice\nlavender-scented sheets. She was so tired, after her adventures and\nexertions, that not even the oddity of her situation could keep her\nawake; she was sound asleep in a few minutes.\n\nRilla slept until eight o'clock the next morning and then wakened with\nstartling suddenness. Somebody was saying in a harsh, gruff voice,\n\"Here, you two, wake up. I want to know what this means.\"\n\nRilla did wake up, promptly and effectually. She had never in all her\nlife wakened up so thoroughly before. Standing in the room were three\npeople, one of them a man, who were absolute strangers to her. The man\nwas a big fellow with a bushy black beard and an angry scowl. Beside\nhim was a woman--a tall, thin, angular person, with violently red hair\nand an indescribable hat. She looked even crosser and more amazed than\nthe man, if that were possible. In the background was another woman--a\ntiny old lady who must have been at least eighty. She was, in spite of\nher tinyness, a very striking-looking personage; she was dressed in\nunrelieved black, had snow-white hair, a dead-white face, and snapping,\nvivid, coal-black eyes. She looked as amazed as the other two, but\nRilla realized that she didn't look cross.\n\nRilla also was realizing that something was wrong--fearfully wrong.\nThen the man said, more gruffly than ever, \"Come now. Who are you and\nwhat business have you here?\"\n\nRilla raised herself on one elbow, looking and feeling hopelessly\nbewildered and foolish. She heard the old black-and-white lady in the\nbackground chuckle to herself. \"She must be real,\" Rilla thought. \"I\ncan't be dreaming her.\" Aloud she gasped,\n\n\"Isn't this Theodore Brewster's place?\"\n\n\"No,\" said the big woman, speaking for the first time, \"this place\nbelongs to us. We bought it from the Brewsters last fall. They moved to\nGreenvale. Our name is Chapley.\"\n\nPoor Rilla fell back on her pillow, quite overcome.\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" she said. \"I--I--thought the Brewsters lived here.\nMrs. Brewster is a friend of mine. I am Rilla Blythe--Dr. Blythe's\ndaughter from Glen St. Mary. I--I was going to town with my--my--this\nlittle boy--and he fell off the train--and I jumped off after him--and\nnobody knew of it. I knew we couldn't get home last night and a storm\nwas coming up--so we came here and when we found nobody at\nhome--we--we--just got in through the window and--and--made ourselves\nat home.\"\n\n\"So it seems,\" said the woman sarcastically.\n\n\"A likely story,\" said the man.\n\n\"We weren't born yesterday,\" added the woman.\n\nMadam Black-and-White didn't say anything; but when the other two made\ntheir pretty speeches she doubled up in a silent convulsion of mirth,\nshaking her head from side to side and beating the air with her hands.\n\nRilla, stung by the disagreeable attitude of the Chapleys, regained her\nself-possession and lost her temper. She sat up in bed and said in her\nhaughtiest voice, \"I do not know when you were born, or where, but it\nmust have been somewhere where very peculiar manners were taught. If\nyou will have the decency to leave my room--er--this room--until I can\nget up and dress I shall not transgress upon your hospitality\"--Rilla\nwas killingly sarcastic--\"any longer. And I shall pay you amply for the\nfood we have eaten and the night's lodging I have taken.\"\n\nThe black-and-white apparition went through the motion of clapping her\nhands, but not a sound did she make. Perhaps Mr. Chapley was cowed by\nRilla's tone--or perhaps he was appeased at the prospect of payment; at\nall events, he spoke more civilly.\n\n\"Well, that's fair. If you pay up it's all right.\"\n\n\"She shall do no such thing as pay you,\" said Madam Black-and-White in\na surprisingly clear, resolute, authoritative tone of voice. \"If you\nhaven't got any shame for yourself, Robert Chapley, you've got a\nmother-in-law who can be ashamed for you. No strangers shall be charged\nfor room and lodging in any house where Mrs. Matilda Pitman lives.\nRemember that, though I may have come down in the world, I haven't\nquite forgot all decency for all that. I knew you was a skinflint when\nAmelia married you, and you've made her as bad as yourself. But Mrs.\nMatilda Pitman has been boss for a long time, and Mrs. Matilda Pitman\nwill remain boss. Here you, Robert Chapley, take yourself out of here\nand let that girl get dressed. And you, Amelia, go downstairs and cook\na breakfast for her.\"\n\nNever, in all her life, had Rilla seen anything like the abject\nmeekness with which those two big people obeyed that mite. They went\nwithout word or look of protest. As the door closed behind them Mrs.\nMatilda Pitman laughed silently, and rocked from side to side in her\nmerriment.\n\n\"Ain't it funny?\" she said. \"I mostly lets them run the length of their\ntether, but sometimes I has to pull them up, and then I does it with a\njerk. They don't dast aggravate me, because I've got considerable hard\ncash, and they're afraid I won't leave it all to them. Neither I will.\nI'll leave 'em some, but some I won't, just to vex 'em. I haven't made\nup my mind where I will leave it but I'll have to, soon, for at eighty\na body is living on borrowed time. Now, you can take your time about\ndressing, my dear, and I'll go down and keep them mean scallawags in\norder. That's a handsome child you have there. Is he your brother?\"\n\n\"No, he's a little war-baby I've been taking care of, because his\nmother died and his father was overseas,\" answered Rilla in a subdued\ntone.\n\n\"War-baby! Humph! Well, I'd better skin out before he wakes up or he'll\nlikely start crying. Children don't like me--never did. I can't\nrecollect any youngster ever coming near me of its own accord. Never\nhad any of my own. Amelia was my step-daughter. Well, it's saved me a\nworld of bother. If kids don't like me I don't like them, so that's an\neven score. But that certainly is a handsome child.\"\n\nJims chose this moment for waking up. He opened his big brown eyes and\nlooked at Mrs. Matilda Pitman unblinkingly. Then he sat up, dimpled\ndeliciously, pointed to her and said solemnly to Rilla, \"Pwitty lady,\nWilla, pwitty lady.\"\n\nMrs. Matilda Pitman smiled. Even eighty-odd is sometimes vulnerable in\nvanity. \"I've heard that children and fools tell the truth,\" she said.\n\"I was used to compliments when I was young--but they're scarcer when\nyou get as far along as I am. I haven't had one for years. It tastes\ngood. I s'pose now, you monkey, you wouldn't give me a kiss.\"\n\nThen Jims did a quite surprising thing. He was not a demonstrative\nyoungster and was chary with kisses even to the Ingleside people. But\nwithout a word he stood up in bed, his plump little body encased only\nin his undershirt, ran to the footboard, flung his arms about Mrs.\nMatilda Pitman's neck, and gave her a bear hug, accompanied by three or\nfour hearty, ungrudging smacks.\n\n\"Jims,\" protested Rilla, aghast at this liberty.\n\n\"You leave him be,\" ordered Mrs. Matilda Pitman, setting her bonnet\nstraight.\n\n\"Laws I like to see some one that isn't skeered of me. Everybody\nis--you are, though you're trying to hide it. And why? Of course Robert\nand Amelia are because I make 'em skeered on purpose. But folks always\nare--no matter how civil I be to them. Are you going to keep this\nchild?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid not. His father is coming home before long.\"\n\n\"Is he any good--the father, I mean?\"\n\n\"Well--he's kind and nice--but he's poor--and I'm afraid he always will\nbe,\" faltered Rilla.\n\n\"I see--shiftless--can't make or keep. Well, I'll see--I'll see. I have\nan idea. It's a good idea, and besides it will make Robert and Amelia\nsquirm. That's its main merit in my eyes, though I like that child,\nmind you, because he ain't skeered of me. He's worth some bother. Now,\nyou get dressed, as I said before, and come down when you're good and\nready.\"\n\nRilla was stiff and sore after her tumble and walk of the night before\nbut she was not long in dressing herself and Jims. When she went down\nto the kitchen she found a smoking hot breakfast on the table. Mr.\nChapley was nowhere in sight and Mrs. Chapley was cutting bread with a\nsulky air. Mrs. Matilda Pitman was sitting in an armchair, knitting a\ngrey army sock. She still wore her bonnet and her triumphant expression.\n\n\"Set right in, dears, and make a good breakfast,\" she said.\n\n\"I am not hungry,\" said Rilla almost pleadingly. \"I don't think I can\neat anything. And it is time I was starting for the station. The\nmorning train will soon be along. Please excuse me and let us go--I'll\ntake a piece of bread and butter for Jims.\"\n\nMrs. Matilda Pitman shook a knitting-needle playfully at Rilla.\n\n\"Sit down and take your breakfast,\" she said. \"Mrs. Matilda Pitman\ncommands you. Everybody obeys Mrs. Matilda Pitman--even Robert and\nAmelia. You must obey her too.\"\n\nRilla did obey her. She sat down and, such was the influence of Mrs.\nMatilda Pitman's mesmeric eye, she ate a tolerable breakfast. The\nobedient Amelia never spoke; Mrs. Matilda Pitman did not speak either;\nbut she knitted furiously and chuckled. When Rilla had finished, Mrs.\nMatilda Pitman rolled up her sock.\n\n\"Now you can go if you want to,\" she said, \"but you don't have to go.\nYou can stay here as long as you want to and I'll make Amelia cook your\nmeals for you.\"\n\nThe independent Miss Blythe, whom a certain clique of Junior Red Cross\ngirls accused of being domineering and \"bossy,\" was thoroughly cowed.\n\n\"Thank you,\" she said meekly, \"but we must really go.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Mrs. Matilda Pitman, throwing open the door, \"your\nconveyance is ready for you. I told Robert he must hitch up and drive\nyou to the station. I enjoy making Robert do things. It's almost the\nonly sport I have left. I'm over eighty and most things have lost their\nflavour except bossing Robert.\"\n\nRobert sat before the door on the front seat of a trim, double-seated,\nrubber-tired buggy. He must have heard every word his mother-in-law\nsaid but he gave no sign.\n\n\"I do wish,\" said Rilla, plucking up what little spirit she had left,\n\"that you would let me--oh--ah--\" then she quailed again before Mrs.\nMatilda Pitman's eye--\"recompense you for--for--\"\n\n\"Mrs. Matilda Pitman said before--and meant it--that she doesn't take\npay for entertaining strangers, nor let other people where she lives do\nit, much as their natural meanness would like to do it. You go along to\ntown and don't forget to call the next time you come this way. Don't be\nscared. Not that you are scared of much, I reckon, considering the way\nyou sassed Robert back this morning. I like your spunk. Most girls\nnowadays are such timid, skeery creeturs. When I was a girl I wasn't\nafraid of nothing nor nobody. Mind you take good care of that boy. He\nain't any common child. And make Robert drive round all the puddles in\nthe road. I won't have that new buggy splashed.\"\n\nAs they drove away Jims threw kisses at Mrs. Matilda Pitman as long as\nhe could see her, and Mrs. Matilda Pitman waved her sock back at him.\nRobert spoke no word, either good or bad, all the way to the station,\nbut he remembered the puddles. When Rilla got out at the siding she\nthanked him courteously. The only response she got was a grunt as\nRobert turned his horse and started for home.\n\n\"Well\"--Rilla drew a long breath--\"I must try to get back into Rilla\nBlythe again. I've been somebody else these past few hours--I don't\nknow just who--some creation of that extraordinary old person's. I\nbelieve she hypnotized me. What an adventure this will be to write the\nboys.\"\n\nAnd then she sighed. Bitter remembrance came that there were only\nJerry, Ken, Carl and Shirley to write it to now. Jem--who would have\nappreciated Mrs. Matilda Pitman keenly--where was Jem?\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\nWORD FROM JEM\n\n4th August 1918\n\n\"It is four years tonight since the dance at the lighthouse--four years\nof war. It seems like three times four. I was fifteen then. I am\nnineteen now. I expected that these past four years would be the most\ndelightful years of my life and they have been years of war--years of\nfear and grief and worry--but I humbly hope, of a little growth in\nstrength and character as well.\n\n\"Today I was going through the hall and I heard mother saying something\nto father about me. I didn't mean to listen--I couldn't help hearing\nher as I went along the hall and upstairs--so perhaps that is why I\nheard what listeners are said never to hear--something good of myself.\nAnd because it was mother who said it I'm going to write it here in my\njournal, for my comforting when days of discouragement come upon me, in\nwhich I feel that I am vain and selfish and weak and that there is no\ngood thing in me.\n\n\"'Rilla has developed in a wonderful fashion these past four years. She\nused to be such an irresponsible young creature. She has changed into a\ncapable, womanly girl and she is such a comfort to me. Nan and Di have\ngrown a little away from me--they have been so little at home--but\nRilla has grown closer and closer to me. We are chums. I don't see how\nI could have got through these terrible years without her, Gilbert.'\n\n\"There, that is just what mother said--and I feel glad--and sorry--and\nproud--and humble! It's beautiful to have my mother think that about\nme--but I don't deserve it quite. I'm not as good and strong as all\nthat. There are heaps of times when I have felt cross and impatient and\nwoeful and despairing. It is mother and Susan who have been this\nfamily's backbone. But I have helped a little, I believe, and I am so\nglad and thankful.\n\n\"The war news has been good right along. The French and Americans are\npushing the Germans back and back and back. Sometimes I am afraid it is\ntoo good to last--after nearly four years of disasters one has a\nfeeling that this constant success is unbelievable. We don't rejoice\nnoisily over it. Susan keeps the flag up but we go softly. The price\npaid has been too high for jubilation. We are just thankful that it has\nnot been paid in vain.\n\n\"No word has come from Jem. We hope--because we dare not do anything\nelse. But there are hours when we all feel--though we never say\nso--that such hoping is foolishness. These hours come more and more\nfrequently as the weeks go by. And we may never know. That is the most\nterrible thought of all. I wonder how Faith is bearing it. To judge\nfrom her letters she has never for a moment given up hope, but she must\nhave had her dark hours of doubt like the rest of us.\"\n\n\n20th August 1918\n\n\"The Canadians have been in action again and Mr. Meredith had a\ncable today saying that Carl had been slightly wounded and is in\nthe hospital. It did not say where the wound was, which is unusual,\nand we all feel worried. There is news of a fresh victory every\nday now.\"\n\n\n30th August 1918\n\n\"The Merediths had a letter from Carl today. His wound was \"only a\nslight one\"--but it was in his right eye and the sight is gone for\never!\n\n\"'One eye is enough to watch bugs with,' Carl writes cheerfully. And we\nknow it might have been oh so much worse! If it had been both eyes! But\nI cried all the afternoon after I saw Carl's letter. Those beautiful,\nfearless blue eyes of his!\n\n\"There is one comfort--he will not have to go back to the front. He is\ncoming home as soon as he is out of the hospital--the first of our boys\nto return. When will the others come?\n\n\"And there is one who will never come. At least we will not see him if\nhe does. But, oh, I think he will be there--when our Canadian soldiers\nreturn there will be a shadow army with them--the army of the fallen.\nWe will not see them--but they will be there!\"\n\n\n1st September 1918\n\n\"Mother and I went into Charlottetown yesterday to see the moving\npicture, \"Hearts of the World.\" I made an awful goose of myself--father\nwill never stop teasing me about it for the rest of my life. But\nit all seemed so horribly real--and I was so intensely interested\nthat I forgot everything but the scenes I saw enacted before my\neyes. And then, quite near the last came a terribly exciting one.\nThe heroine was struggling with a horrible German soldier who was\ntrying to drag her away. I knew she had a knife--I had seen her hide\nit, to have it in readiness--and I couldn't understand why she didn't\nproduce it and finish the brute. I thought she must have forgotten it,\nand just at the tensest moment of the scene I lost my head altogether.\nI just stood right up on my feet in that crowded house and shrieked at\nthe top of my voice--'The knife is in your stocking--the knife is in\nyour stocking!'\n\n\"I created a sensation!\n\n\"The funny part was, that just as I said it, the girl did snatch out\nthe knife and stab the soldier with it!\n\n\"Everybody in the house laughed. I came to my senses and fell back in\nmy seat, overcome with mortification. Mother was shaking with laughter.\nI could have shaken her. Why hadn't she pulled me down and choked me\nbefore I had made such an idiot of myself. She protests that there\nwasn't time.\n\n\"Fortunately the house was dark, and I don't believe there was anybody\nthere who knew me. And I thought I was becoming sensible and\nself-controlled and womanly! It is plain I have some distance to go yet\nbefore I attain that devoutly desired consummation.\"\n\n\n20th September 1918\n\n\"In the east Bulgaria has asked for peace, and in the west the\nBritish have smashed the Hindenburg line; and right here in Glen\nSt. Mary little Bruce Meredith has done something that I think\nwonderful--wonderful because of the love behind it. Mrs. Meredith was\nhere tonight and told us about it--and mother and I cried, and Susan\ngot up and clattered the things about the stove.\n\n\"Bruce always loved Jem very devotedly, and the child has never\nforgotten him in all these years. He has been as faithful in his way as\nDog Monday was in his. We have always told him that Jem would come\nback. But it seems that he was in Carter Flagg's store last night and\nhe heard his Uncle Norman flatly declaring that Jem Blythe would never\ncome back and that the Ingleside folk might as well give up hoping he\nwould. Bruce went home and cried himself to sleep. This morning his\nmother saw him going out of the yard, with a very sorrowful and\ndetermined look, carrying his pet kitten. She didn't think much more\nabout it until later on he came in, with the most tragic little face,\nand told her, his little body shaking with sobs, that he had drowned\nStripey.\n\n\"'Why did you do that?' Mrs. Meredith exclaimed.\n\n\"'To bring Jem back,' sobbed Bruce. 'I thought if I sacrificed Stripey\nGod would send Jem back. So I drownded him--and, oh mother, it was\nawful hard--but surely God will send Jem back now, 'cause Stripey was\nthe dearest thing I had. I just told God I would give Him Stripey if He\nwould send Jem back. And He will, won't He, mother?'\n\n\"Mrs. Meredith didn't know what to say to the poor child. She just\ncould not tell him that perhaps his sacrifice wouldn't bring Jem\nback--that God didn't work that way. She told him that he mustn't\nexpect it right away--that perhaps it would be quite a long time yet\nbefore Jem came back.\n\n\"But Bruce said, 'It oughtn't to take longer'n a week, mother. Oh,\nmother, Stripey was such a nice little cat. He purred so pretty. Don't\nyou think God ought to like him enough to let us have Jem?\"\n\n\"Mr. Meredith is worried about the effect on Bruce's faith in God, and\nMrs. Meredith is worried about the effect on Bruce himself if his hope\nisn't fulfilled. And I feel as if I must cry every time I think of it.\nIt was so splendid--and sad--and beautiful. The dear devoted little\nfellow! He worshipped that kitten. And if it all goes for nothing--as\nso many sacrifices seem to go for nothing--he will be brokenhearted,\nfor he isn't old enough to understand that God doesn't answer our\nprayers just as we hope--and doesn't make bargains with us when we\nyield something we love up to Him.\"\n\n\n24th September 1918\n\n\"I have been kneeling at my window in the moonshine for a long\ntime, just thanking God over and over again. The joy of last night\nand today has been so great that it seemed half pain--as if our\nhearts weren't big enough to hold it.\n\n\"Last night I was sitting here in my room at eleven o'clock writing a\nletter to Shirley. Every one else was in bed, except father, who was\nout. I heard the telephone ring and I ran out to the hall to answer it,\nbefore it should waken mother. It was long-distance calling, and when I\nanswered it said 'This is the telegraph Company's office in\nCharlottetown. There is an overseas cable for Dr. Blythe.'\n\n\"I thought of Shirley--my heart stood still--and then I heard him\nsaying, 'It's from Holland.'\n\n\"The message was,\n\n 'Just arrived. Escaped from Germany. Quite well. Writing.\n James Blythe.'\n\n\"I didn't faint or fall or scream. I didn't feel glad or surprised. I\ndidn't feel anything. I felt numb, just as I did when I heard Walter\nhad enlisted. I hung up the receiver and turned round. Mother was\nstanding in her doorway. She wore her old rose kimono, and her hair was\nhanging down her back in a long thick braid, and her eyes were shining.\nShe looked just like a young girl.\n\n\"'There is word from Jem?' she said.\n\n\"How did she know? I hadn't said a word at the phone except\n'Yes--yes--yes.' She says she doesn't know how she knew, but she did\nknow. She was awake and she heard the ring and she knew that there was\nword from Jem.\n\n\"'He's alive--he's well--he's in Holland,' I said.\n\n\"Mother came out into the hall and said, 'I must get your father on the\n'phone and tell him. He is in the Upper Glen.'\n\n\"She was very calm and quiet--not a bit like I would have expected her\nto be. But then I wasn't either. I went and woke up Gertrude and Susan\nand told them. Susan said 'Thank God,' firstly, and secondly she said\n'Did I not tell you Dog Monday knew?' and thirdly, 'I'll go down and\nmake a cup of tea'--and she stalked down in her nightdress to make it.\nShe did make it--and made mother and Gertrude drink it--but I went back\nto my room and shut my door and locked it, and I knelt by my window and\ncried--just as Gertrude did when her great news came.\n\n\"I think I know at last exactly what I shall feel like on the\nresurrection morning.\"\n\n\n4th October 1918\n\n\"Today Jem's letter came. It has been in the house only six hours and\nit is almost read to pieces. The post-mistress told everybody in the\nGlen it had come, and everybody came up to hear the news.\n\n\"Jem was badly wounded in the thigh--and he was picked up and taken to\nprison, so delirious with fever that he didn't know what was happening\nto him or where he was. It was weeks before he came to his senses and\nwas able to write. Then he did write--but it never came. He wasn't\ntreated at all badly at his camp--only the food was poor. He had\nnothing to eat but a little black bread and boiled turnips and now and\nthen a little soup with black peas in it. And we sat down every one of\nthose days to three good square luxurious meals! He wrote us as often\nas he could but he was afraid we were not getting his letters because\nno reply came. As soon as he was strong enough he tried to escape, but\nwas caught and brought back; a month later he and a comrade made\nanother attempt and succeeded in reaching Holland.\n\n\"Jem can't come home right away. He isn't quite so well as his cable\nsaid, for his wound has not healed properly and he has to go into a\nhospital in England for further treatment. But he says he will be all\nright eventually, and we know he is safe and will be back home\nsometime, and oh, the difference it makes in everything!\n\n\"I had a letter from Jim Anderson today, too. He has married an English\ngirl, got his discharge, and is coming right home to Canada with his\nbride. I don't know whether to be glad or sorry. It will depend on what\nkind of a woman she is. I had a second letter also of a somewhat\nmysterious tenor. It is from a Charlottetown lawyer, asking me to go in\nto see him at my earliest convenience in regard to a certain matter\nconnected with the estate of the 'late Mrs. Matilda Pitman.'\n\n\"I read a notice of Mrs. Pitman's death--from heart failure--in the\nEnterprise a few weeks ago. I wonder if this summons has anything to do\nwith Jims.\"\n\n\n5th October 1918\n\n\"I went into town this morning and had an interview with Mrs. Pitman's\nlawyer--a little thin, wispy man, who spoke of his late client with\nsuch a profound respect that it is evident that he as was much under\nher thumb as Robert and Amelia were. He drew up a new will for her a\nshort time before her death. She was worth thirty thousand dollars,\nthe bulk of which was left to Amelia Chapley. But she left five\nthousand to me in trust for Jims. The interest is to be used as I\nsee fit for his education, and the principal is to be paid over to\nhim on his twentieth birthday. Certainly Jims was born lucky. I saved\nhim from slow extinction at the hands of Mrs. Conover--Mary Vance saved\nhim from death by diptheritic croup--his star saved him when he fell\noff the train. And he tumbled not only into a clump of bracken, but\nright into this nice little legacy.\n\n\"Evidently, as Mrs. Matilda Pitman said, and as I have always believed,\nhe is no common child and he has no common destiny in store for him.\n\n\"At all events he is provided for, and in such a fashion that Jim\nAnderson can't squander his inheritance if he wanted to. Now, if the\nnew English stepmother is only a good sort I shall feel quite easy\nabout the future of my war-baby.\n\n\"I wonder what Robert and Amelia think of it. I fancy they will nail\ndown their windows when they leave home after this!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\nVICTORY!\n\n\"A day 'of chilling winds and gloomy skies,'\" Rilla quoted one Sunday\nafternoon--the sixth of October to be exact. It was so cold that they\nhad lighted a fire in the living-room and the merry little flames were\ndoing their best to counteract the outside dourness. \"It's more like\nNovember than October--November is such an ugly month.\"\n\nCousin Sophia was there, having again forgiven Susan, and Mrs. Martin\nClow, who was not visiting on Sunday but had dropped in to borrow\nSusan's cure for rheumatism--that being cheaper than getting one from\nthe doctor. \"I'm afeared we're going to have an airly winter,\"\nforeboded Cousin Sophia. \"The muskrats are building awful big houses\nround the pond, and that's a sign that never fails. Dear me, how that\nchild has grown!\" Cousin Sophia sighed again, as if it were an unhappy\ncircumstance that a child should grow. \"When do you expect his father?\"\n\n\"Next week,\" said Rilla.\n\n\"Well, I hope the stepmother won't abuse the pore child,\" sighed Cousin\nSophia, \"but I have my doubts--I have my doubts. Anyhow, he'll be sure\nto feel the difference between his usage here and what he'll get\nanywhere else. You've spoiled him so, Rilla, waiting on him hand and\nfoot the way you've always done.\"\n\nRilla smiled and pressed her cheek to Jims' curls. She knew\nsweet-tempered, sunny, little Jims was not spoiled. Nevertheless her\nheart was anxious behind her smile. She, too, thought much about the\nnew Mrs. Anderson and wondered uneasily what she would be like.\n\n\"I can't give Jims up to a woman who won't love him,\" she thought\nrebelliously.\n\n\"I b'lieve it's going to rain,\" said Cousin Sophia. \"We have had an\nawful lot of rain this fall already. It's going to make it awful hard\nfor people to get their roots in. It wasn't so in my young days. We\ngin'rally had beautiful Octobers then. But the seasons is altogether\ndifferent now from what they used to be.\" Clear across Cousin Sophia's\ndoleful voice cut the telephone bell. Gertrude Oliver answered it.\n\"Yes--what? What? Is it true--is it official? Thank you--thank you.\"\n\nGertrude turned and faced the room dramatically, her dark eyes\nflashing, her dark face flushed with feeling. All at once the sun broke\nthrough the thick clouds and poured through the big crimson maple\noutside the window. Its reflected glow enveloped her in a weird\nimmaterial flame. She looked like a priestess performing some mystic,\nsplendid rite.\n\n\"Germany and Austria are suing for peace,\" she said.\n\nRilla went crazy for a few minutes. She sprang up and danced around the\nroom, clapping her hands, laughing, crying.\n\n\"Sit down, child,\" said Mrs. Clow, who never got excited over anything,\nand so had missed a tremendous amount of trouble and delight in her\njourney through life.\n\n\"Oh,\" cried Rilla, \"I have walked the floor for hours in despair and\nanxiety in these past four years. Now let me walk in joy. It was worth\nliving long dreary years for this minute, and it would be worth living\nthem again just to look back to it. Susan, let's run up the flag--and\nwe must phone the news to every one in the Glen.\"\n\n\"Can we have as much sugar as we want to now?\" asked Jims eagerly.\n\nIt was a never-to-be-forgotten afternoon. As the news spread excited\npeople ran about the village and dashed up to Ingleside. The Merediths\ncame over and stayed to supper and everybody talked and nobody\nlistened. Cousin Sophia tried to protest that Germany and Austria were\nnot to be trusted and it was all part of a plot, but nobody paid the\nleast attention to her.\n\n\"This Sunday makes up for that one in March,\" said Susan.\n\n\"I wonder,\" said Gertrude dreamily, apart to Rilla, \"if things won't\nseem rather flat and insipid when peace really comes. After being fed\nfor four years on horrors and fears, terrible reverses, amazing\nvictories, won't anything less be tame and uninteresting? How\nstrange--and blessed--and dull it will be not to dread the coming of\nthe mail every day.\"\n\n\"We must dread it for a little while yet, I suppose,\" said Rilla.\n\"Peace won't come--can't come--for some weeks yet. And in those weeks\ndreadful things may happen. My excitement is over. We have won the\nvictory--but oh, what a price we have paid!\"\n\n\"Not too high a price for freedom,\" said Gertrude softly. \"Do you think\nit was, Rilla?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Rilla, under her breath. She was seeing a little white cross\non a battlefield of France. \"No--not if those of us who live will show\nourselves worthy of it--if we 'keep faith.'\"\n\n\"We will keep faith,\" said Gertrude. She rose suddenly. A silence fell\naround the table, and in the silence Gertrude repeated Walter's famous\npoem \"The Piper.\" When she finished Mr. Meredith stood up and held up\nhis glass. \"Let us drink,\" he said, \"to the silent army--to the boys\nwho followed when the Piper summoned. 'For our tomorrow they gave their\ntoday'--theirs is the victory!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\nMR. HYDE GOES TO HIS OWN PLACE AND SUSAN TAKES A HONEYMOON\n\nEarly in November Jims left Ingleside. Rilla saw him go with many tears\nbut a heart free from boding. Mrs. Jim Anderson, Number Two, was such a\nnice little woman that one was rather inclined to wonder at the luck\nwhich bestowed her on Jim. She was rosy-faced and blue-eyed and\nwholesome, with the roundness and trigness of a geranium leaf. Rilla\nsaw at first glance that she was to be trusted with Jims.\n\n\"I'm fond of children, miss,\" she said heartily. \"I'm used to\nthem--I've left six little brothers and sisters behind me. Jims is a\ndear child and I must say you've done wonders in bringing him up so\nhealthy and handsome. I'll be as good to him as if he was my own, miss.\nAnd I'll make Jim toe the line all right. He's a good worker--all he\nneeds is some one to keep him at it, and to take charge of his money.\nWe've rented a little farm just out of the village, and we're going to\nsettle down there. Jim wanted to stay in England but I says 'No.' I\nhankered to try a new country and I've always thought Canada would suit\nme.\"\n\n\"I'm so glad you are going to live near us. You'll let Jims come here\noften, won't you? I love him dearly.\"\n\n\"No doubt you do, miss, for a lovabler child I never did see. We\nunderstand, Jim and me, what you've done for him, and you won't find us\nungrateful. He can come here whenever you want him and I'll always be\nglad of any advice from you about his bringing up. He is more your baby\nthan anyone else's I should say, and I'll see that you get your fair\nshare of him, miss.\"\n\nSo Jims went away--with the soup tureen, though not in it. Then the\nnews of the Armistice came, and even Glen St. Mary went mad. That night\nthe village had a bonfire, and burned the Kaiser in effigy. The fishing\nvillage boys turned out and burned all the sandhills off in one grand\nglorious conflagration that extended for seven miles. Up at Ingleside\nRilla ran laughing to her room.\n\n\"Now I'm going to do a most unladylike and inexcusable thing,\" she\nsaid, as she pulled her green velvet hat out of its box. \"I'm going to\nkick this hat about the room until it is without form and void; and I\nshall never as long as I live wear anything of that shade of green\nagain.\"\n\n\"You've certainly kept your vow pluckily,\" laughed Miss Oliver.\n\n\"It wasn't pluck--it was sheer obstinacy--I'm rather ashamed of it,\"\nsaid Rilla, kicking joyously. \"I wanted to show mother. It's mean to\nwant to show your own mother--most unfilial conduct! But I have shown\nher. And I've shown myself a few things! Oh, Miss Oliver, just for one\nmoment I'm really feeling quite young again--young and frivolous and\nsilly. Did I ever say November was an ugly month? Why it's the most\nbeautiful month in the whole year. Listen to the bells ringing in\nRainbow Valley! I never heard them so clearly. They're ringing for\npeace--and new happiness--and all the dear, sweet, sane, homey things\nthat we can have again now, Miss Oliver. Not that I am sane just now--I\ndon't pretend to be. The whole world is having a little crazy spell\ntoday. Soon we'll sober down--and 'keep faith'--and begin to build up\nour new world. But just for today let's be mad and glad.\"\n\nSusan came in from the outdoor sunlight looking supremely satisfied.\n\n\"Mr. Hyde is gone,\" she announced.\n\n\"Gone! Do you mean he is dead, Susan?\"\n\n\"No, Mrs. Dr. dear, that beast is not dead. But you will never see him\nagain. I feel sure of that.\"\n\n\"Don't be so mysterious, Susan. What has happened to him?\"\n\n\"Well, Mrs. Dr. dear, he was sitting out on the back steps this\nafternoon. It was just after the news came that the Armistice had been\nsigned and he was looking his Hydest. I can assure you he was an\nawesome looking beast. All at once, Mrs. Dr. dear, Bruce Meredith came\naround the corner of the kitchen walking on his stilts. He has been\nlearning to walk on them lately and came over to show me how well he\ncould do it. Mr. Hyde just took a look and one bound carried him over\nthe yard fence. Then he went tearing through the maple grove in great\nleaps with his ears laid back. You never saw a creature so terrified,\nMrs. Dr. dear. He has never returned.\"\n\n\"Oh, he'll come back, Susan, probably chastened in spirit by his\nfright.\"\n\n\"We will see, Mrs. Dr. dear--we will see. Remember, the Armistice has\nbeen signed. And that reminds me that Whiskers-on-the-moon had a\nparalytic stroke last night. I am not saying it is a judgment on him,\nbecause I am not in the counsels of the Almighty, but one can have\none's own thoughts about it. Neither Whiskers-on-the-moon or Mr. Hyde\nwill be much more heard of in Glen St. Mary, Mrs. Dr. dear, and that\nyou may tie to.\"\n\nMr. Hyde certainly was heard of no more. As it could hardly have been\nhis fright that kept him away the Ingleside folk decided that some dark\nfate of shot or poison had descended on him--except Susan, who believed\nand continued to affirm that he had merely \"gone to his own place.\"\nRilla lamented him, for she had been very fond of her stately golden\npussy, and had liked him quite as well in his weird Hyde moods as in\nhis tame Jekyll ones.\n\n\"And now, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" said Susan, \"since the fall house-cleaning is\nover and the garden truck is all safe in cellar, I am going to take a\nhoneymoon to celebrate the peace.\"\n\n\"A honeymoon, Susan?\"\n\n\"Yes, Mrs. Dr. dear, a honeymoon,\" repeated Susan firmly. \"I shall\nnever be able to get a husband but I am not going to be cheated out of\neverything and a honeymoon I intend to have. I am going to\nCharlottetown to visit my married brother and his family. His wife has\nbeen ailing all the fall, but nobody knows whether she is going to die\nnot. She never did tell anyone what she was going to do until she did\nit. That is the main reason why she was never liked in our family. But\nto be on the safe side I feel that I should visit her. I have not been\nin town for over a day for twenty years and I have a feeling that I\nmight as well see one of those moving pictures there is so much talk\nof, so as not to be wholly out of the swim. But have no fear that I\nshall be carried away with them, Mrs. Dr. dear. I shall be away a\nfortnight if you can spare me so long.\"\n\n\"You certainly deserve a good holiday, Susan. Better take a month--that\nis the proper length for a honeymoon.\"\n\n\"No, Mrs. Dr. dear, a fortnight is all I require. Besides, I must be\nhome for at least three weeks before Christmas to make the proper\npreparations. We will have a Christmas that is a Christmas this year,\nMrs. Dr. dear. Do you think there is any chance of our boys being home\nfor it?\"\n\n\"No, I think not, Susan. Both Jem and Shirley write that they don't\nexpect to be home before spring--it may be even midsummer before\nShirley comes. But Carl Meredith will be home, and Nan and Di, and we\nwill have a grand celebration once more. We'll set chairs for all,\nSusan, as you did our first war Christmas--yes, for all--for my dear\nlad whose chair must always be vacant, as well as for the others,\nSusan.\"\n\n\"It is not likely I would forget to set his place, Mrs. Dr. dear,\" said\nSusan, wiping her eyes as she departed to pack up for her \"honeymoon.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\n\"RILLA-MY-RILLA!\"\n\nCarl Meredith and Miller Douglas came home just before Christmas and\nGlen St. Mary met them at the station with a brass band borrowed from\nLowbridge and speeches of home manufacture. Miller was brisk and\nbeaming in spite of his wooden leg; he had developed into a\nbroad-shouldered, imposing looking fellow and the D. C. Medal he wore\nreconciled Miss Cornelia to the shortcomings of his pedigree to such a\ndegree that she tacitly recognized his engagement to Mary.\n\nThe latter put on a few airs--especially when Carter Flagg took Miller\ninto his store as head clerk--but nobody grudged them to her.\n\n\"Of course farming's out of the question for us now,\" she told Rilla,\n\"but Miller thinks he'll like storekeeping fine once he gets used to a\nquiet life again, and Carter Flagg will be a more agreeable boss than\nold Kitty. We're going to be married in the fall and live in the old\nMead house with the bay windows and the mansard roof. I've always\nthought that the handsomest house in the Glen, but never did I dream\nI'd ever live there. We're only renting it, of course, but if things go\nas we expect and Carter Flagg takes Miller into partnership we'll own\nit some day. Say, I've got on some in society, haven't I, considering\nwhat I come from? I never aspired to being a storekeeper's wife. But\nMiller's real ambitious and he'll have a wife that'll back him up. He\nsays he never saw a French girl worth looking at twice and that his\nheart beat true to me every moment he was away.\"\n\nJerry Meredith and Joe Milgrave came back in January, and all winter\nthe boys from the Glen and its environs came home by twos and threes.\nNone of them came back just as they went away, not even those who had\nbeen so fortunate as to escape injury.\n\nOne spring day, when the daffodils were blowing on the Ingleside lawn,\nand the banks of the brook in Rainbow Valley were sweet with white and\npurple violets, the little, lazy afternoon accommodation train pulled\ninto the Glen station. It was very seldom that passengers for the Glen\ncame by that train, so nobody was there to meet it except the new\nstation agent and a small black-and-yellow dog, who for four and a half\nyears had met every train that had steamed into Glen St. Mary.\nThousands of trains had Dog Monday met and never had the boy he waited\nand watched for returned. Yet still Dog Monday watched on with eyes\nthat never quite lost hope. Perhaps his dog-heart failed him at times;\nhe was growing old and rheumatic; when he walked back to his kennel\nafter each train had gone his gait was very sober now--he never trotted\nbut went slowly with a drooping head and a depressed tail that had\nquite lost its old saucy uplift.\n\nOne passenger stepped off the train--a tall fellow in a faded\nlieutenant's uniform, who walked with a barely perceptible limp. He had\na bronzed face and there were some grey hairs in the ruddy curls that\nclustered around his forehead. The new station agent looked at him\nanxiously. He was used to seeing the khaki-clad figures come off the\ntrain, some met by a tumultuous crowd, others, who had sent no word of\ntheir coming, stepping off quietly like this one. But there was a\ncertain distinction of bearing and features in this soldier that caught\nhis attention and made him wonder a little more interestedly who he was.\n\nA black-and-yellow streak shot past the station agent. Dog Monday\nstiff? Dog Monday rheumatic? Dog Monday old? Never believe it. Dog\nMonday was a young pup, gone clean mad with rejuvenating joy.\n\nHe flung himself against the tall soldier, with a bark that choked in\nhis throat from sheer rapture. He flung himself on the ground and\nwrithed in a frenzy of welcome. He tried to climb the soldier's khaki\nlegs and slipped down and groveled in an ecstasy that seemed as if it\nmust tear his little body in pieces. He licked his boots and when the\nlieutenant had, with laughter on his lips and tears in his eyes,\nsucceeded in gathering the little creature up in his arms Dog Monday\nlaid his head on the khaki shoulder and licked the sunburned neck,\nmaking queer sounds between barks and sobs.\n\nThe station agent had heard the story of Dog Monday. He knew now who\nthe returned soldier was. Dog Monday's long vigil was ended. Jem Blythe\nhad come home.\n\n\"We are all very happy--and sad--and thankful,\" wrote Rilla in her\ndiary a week later, \"though Susan has not yet recovered--never will\nrecover, I believe--from the shock of having Jem come home the very\nnight she had, owing to a strenuous day, prepared a 'pick up' supper. I\nshall never forget the sight of her, tearing madly about from pantry to\ncellar, hunting out stored away goodies. Just as if anybody cared what\nwas on the table--none of us could eat, anyway. It was meat and drink\njust to look at Jem. Mother seemed afraid to take her eyes off him lest\nhe vanish out of her sight. It is wonderful to have Jem back--and\nlittle Dog Monday. Monday refuses to be separated from Jem for a\nmoment. He sleeps on the foot of his bed and squats beside him at\nmeal-times. And on Sunday he went to church with him and insisted on\ngoing right into our pew, where he went to sleep on Jem's feet. In the\nmiddle of the sermon he woke up and seemed to think he must welcome Jem\nall over again, for he bounded up with a series of barks and wouldn't\nquiet down until Jem took him up in his arms. But nobody seemed to\nmind, and Mr. Meredith came and patted his head after the service and\nsaid, \"'Faith and affection and loyalty are precious things wherever\nthey are found. That little dog's love is a treasure, Jem.'\n\n\"One night when Jem and I were talking things over in Rainbow Valley, I\nasked him if he had ever felt afraid at the front.\n\n\"Jem laughed.\n\n\"'Afraid! I was afraid scores of times--sick with fear--I who used to\nlaugh at Walter when he was frightened. Do you know, Walter was never\nfrightened after he got to the front. Realities never scared him--only\nhis imagination could do that. His colonel told me that Walter was the\nbravest man in the regiment. Rilla, I never realized that Walter was\ndead till I came back home. You don't know how I miss him now--you\nfolks here have got used to it in a sense--but it's all fresh to me.\nWalter and I grew up together--we were chums as well as brothers--and\nnow here, in this old valley we loved when we were children, it has\ncome home to me that I'm not to see him again.'\n\n\"Jem is going back to college in the fall and so are Jerry and Carl. I\nsuppose Shirley will, too. He expects to be home in July. Nan and Di\nwill go on teaching. Faith doesn't expect to be home before September.\nI suppose she will teach then too, for she and Jem can't be married\nuntil he gets through his course in medicine. Una Meredith has decided,\nI think, to take a course in Household Science at Kingsport--and\nGertrude is to be married to her Major and is frankly happy about\nit--'shamelessly happy' she says; but I think her attitude is very\nbeautiful. They are all talking of their plans and hopes--more soberly\nthan they used to do long ago, but still with interest, and a\ndetermination to carry on and make good in spite of lost years.\n\n\"'We're in a new world,' Jem says, 'and we've got to make it a better\none than the old. That isn't done yet, though some folks seem to think\nit ought to be. The job isn't finished--it isn't really begun. The old\nworld is destroyed and we must build up the new one. It will be the\ntask of years. I've seen enough of war to realize that we've got to\nmake a world where wars can't happen. We've given Prussianism its\nmortal wound but it isn't dead yet and it isn't confined to Germany\neither. It isn't enough to drive out the old spirit--we've got to bring\nin the new.'\n\n\"I'm writing down those words of Jem's in my diary so that I can read\nthem over occasionally and get courage from them, when moods come when\nI find it not so easy to 'keep faith.'\"\n\nRilla closed her journal with a little sigh. Just then she was not\nfinding it easy to keep faith. All the rest seemed to have some special\naim or ambition about which to build up their lives--she had none. And\nshe was very lonely, horribly lonely. Jem had come back--but he was not\nthe laughing boy-brother who had gone away in 1914 and he belonged to\nFaith. Walter would never come back. She had not even Jims left. All at\nonce her world seemed wide and empty--that is, it had seemed wide and\nempty from the moment yesterday when she had read in a Montreal paper a\nfortnight-old list of returned soldiers in which was the name of\nCaptain Kenneth Ford.\n\nSo Ken was home--and he had not even written her that he was coming. He\nhad been in Canada two weeks and she had not had a line from him. Of\ncourse he had forgotten--if there was ever anything to forget--a\nhandclasp--a kiss--a look--a promise asked under the influence of a\npassing emotion. It was all absurd--she had been a silly, romantic,\ninexperienced goose. Well, she would be wiser in the future--very\nwise--and very discreet--and very contemptuous of men and their ways.\n\n\"I suppose I'd better go with Una and take up Household Science too,\"\nshe thought, as she stood by her window and looked down through a\ndelicate emerald tangle of young vines on Rainbow Valley, lying in a\nwonderful lilac light of sunset. There did not seem anything very\nattractive just then about Household Science, but, with a whole new\nworld waiting to be built, a girl must do something.\n\nThe door bell rang, Rilla turned reluctantly stairwards. She must\nanswer it--there was no one else in the house; but she hated the idea\nof callers just then. She went downstairs slowly, and opened the front\ndoor.\n\nA man in khaki was standing on the steps--a tall fellow, with dark eyes\nand hair, and a narrow white scar running across his brown cheek. Rilla\nstared at him foolishly for a moment. Who was it?\n\nShe ought to know him--there was certainly something very familiar\nabout him--\"Rilla-my-Rilla,\" he said.\n\n\"Ken,\" gasped Rilla. Of course, it was Ken--but he looked so much\nolder--he was so much changed--that scar--the lines about his eyes and\nlips--her thoughts went whirling helplessly.\n\nKen took the uncertain hand she held out, and looked at her. The slim\nRilla of four years ago had rounded out into symmetry. He had left a\nschool girl, and he found a woman--a woman with wonderful eyes and a\ndented lip, and rose-bloom cheek--a woman altogether beautiful and\ndesirable--the woman of his dreams.\n\n\"Is it Rilla-my-Rilla?\" he asked, meaningly.\n\nEmotion shook Rilla from head to foot.\nJoy--happiness--sorrow--fear--every passion that had wrung her heart in\nthose four long years seemed to surge up in her soul for a moment as\nthe deeps of being were stirred. She had tried to speak; at first voice\nwould not come. Then--\"Yeth,\" said Rilla."