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the music of Ned Burrā€™s violin, and the flash of star shells for the silver sparkles on the old blue gulf. Two of them were sleeping under the Flanders poppiesā€”Alec Burr from the Upper Glen, and Clark Manley of Lowbridge. Others were wounded in the hospitals. But so far nothing had touched the manse and the Ingleside boys. They seemed to bear charmed lives. Yet the suspense never grew any easier to bear as the weeks and months of war went by.

ā€œIt isnā€™t as if it were some sort of fever to which you might conclude they were immune when they hadnā€™t taken it for two years,ā€ sighed Rilla. ā€œThe danger is just as great and just as real as it was the first day they went into the trenches. I know this, and it tortures me every day. And yet I canā€™t help hoping that since theyā€™ve come this far unhurt theyā€™ll come through. Oh, Miss Oliver, what would it be like not to wake up in the morning feeling afraid of the news the day would bring? I canā€™t picture such a state of things somehow. And two years ago this morning I woke wondering what delightful gift the new day would give me. These are the two years I thought would be filled with fun.ā€

ā€œWould you exchange themā€”nowā€”for two years filled with fun?ā€

ā€œNo,ā€ said Rilla slowly. ā€œI wouldnā€™t. Itā€™s strangeā€”isnā€™t it?ā€”They have been two terrible yearsā€”and yet I have a queer feeling of thankfulness for themā€”as if they had brought me something very precious, with all their pain. I wouldnā€™t want to go back and be the girl I was two years ago, not even if I could. Not that I think Iā€™ve made any wonderful progressā€”but Iā€™m not quite the selfish, frivolous little doll I was then. I suppose I had a soul then, Miss Oliverā€”but I didnā€™t know it. I know it nowā€”and that is worth a great dealā€”worth all the suffering of the past two years. And stillā€ā€”Rilla gave a little apologetic laugh, ā€œI donā€™t want to suffer any moreā€”not even for the sake of more soul growth. At the end of two more years I might look back and be thankful for the development they had brought me, too; but I donā€™t want it now.ā€

ā€œWe never do,ā€ said Miss Oliver. ā€œThat is why we are not left to choose our own means and measure of development, I suppose. No matter how much we value what our lessons have brought us we donā€™t want to go on with the bitter schooling. Well, let us hope for the best, as Susan says; things are really going well now and if Rumania lines up, the end may come with a suddenness that will surprise us all.ā€

Rumania did come inā€”and Susan remarked approvingly that its king and queen were the finest looking royal couple she had seen pictures of. So the summer passed away. Early in September word came that the Canadians had been shifted to the Somme front and anxiety grew tenser and deeper. For the first time Mrs. Blytheā€™s spirit failed her a little, and as the days of suspense wore on the doctor began to look gravely at her, and veto this or that special effort in Red Cross work.

ā€œOh, let me workā€”let me work, Gilbert,ā€ she entreated feverishly. ā€œWhile Iā€™m working I donā€™t think so much. If Iā€™m idle I imagine everythingā€”rest is only torture for me. My two boys are on the frightful Somme frontā€”and Shirley pores day and night over aviation literature and says nothing. But I see the purpose growing in his eyes. No, I cannot restā€”donā€™t ask it of me, Gilbert.ā€

But the doctor was inexorable.

ā€œI canā€™t let you kill yourself, Anne-girl,ā€ he said. ā€œWhen the boys come back I want a mother here to welcome them. Why, youā€™re getting transparent. It wonā€™t doā€”ask Susan there if it will do.ā€

ā€œOh, if Susan and you are both banded together against me!ā€ said Anne helplessly.

One day the glorious news came that the Canadians had taken Courcelette and Martenpuich, with many prisoners and guns. Susan ran up the flag and said it was plain to be seen that Haig knew what soldiers to pick for a hard job. The others dared not feel exultant. Who knew what price had been paid?

Rilla woke that morning when the dawn was beginning to break and went to her window to look out, her thick creamy eyelids heavy with sleep. Just at dawn the world looks as it never looks at any other time. The air was cold with dew and the orchard and grove and Rainbow Valley were full of mystery and wonder. Over the eastern hill were golden deeps and silvery-pink shallows. There was no wind, and Rilla heard distinctly a dog howling in a melancholy way down in the direction of the station. Was it Dog Monday? And if it were, why was he howling like that? Rilla shivered; the sound had something boding and grievous in it. She remembered that Miss Oliver said once, when they were coming home in the darkness and heard a dog howl, ā€œWhen a dog cries like that the Angel of Death is passing.ā€ Rilla listened with a curdling fear at her heart. It was Dog Mondayā€”she felt sure of it. Whose dirge was he howlingā€”to whose spirit was he sending that anguished greeting and farewell?

Rilla went back to bed but she could not sleep. All day she watched and waited in a dread of which she did not speak to anyone. She went down to see Dog Monday and the station-master said, ā€œThat dog of yours howled from midnight to sunrise something weird. I dunno what got into him. I got up once and went out and hollered at him but he paid no ā€˜tention to me. He was sitting all alone in the moonlight out there at the end of the platform, and every few minutes the poor lonely little beggarā€™d lift his nose and howl as if his heart was breaking. He never did it aforeā€” always slept in his kennel real quiet and canny from train to train. But he sure had something on his mind last night.ā€

Dog Monday was lying in his kennel. He wagged his tail and licked Rillaā€™s hand. But he would not touch the food she brought for him.

ā€œIā€™m afraid heā€™s sick,ā€ she said anxiously. She hated to go away and leave him. But no bad news came that dayā€”nor the nextā€”nor the next. Rillaā€™s fear lifted. Dog Monday howled no more and resumed his routine of train meeting and watching. When five days had passed the Ingleside people began to feel that they might be cheerful again. Rilla dashed about the kitchen helping Susan with the breakfast and singing so sweetly and clearly that Cousin Sophia across the road heard her and croaked out to Mrs. Albert,

ā€œā€˜Sing before eating, cry before sleeping,ā€™ Iā€™ve always heard.ā€

But Rilla Blythe shed no tears before the nightfall. When her father, his face grey and drawn and old, came to her that afternoon and told her that Walter had been killed in action at Courcelette she crumpled up in a pitiful little heap of merciful unconsciousness in his arms. Nor did she waken to her pain for many hours.

CHAPTER XXIII ā€œAND SO, GOODNIGHTā€

The fierce flame of agony had burned itself out and the grey dust of its ashes was over all the world. Rillaā€™s younger life recovered physically sooner than her mother. For weeks Mrs. Blythe lay ill from grief and shock. Rilla found it was possible to go on with existence, since existence had still to be reckoned with. There was work to be done, for Susan could not do all. For her motherā€™s sake she had to put on calmness and endurance as a garment in the day; but night after night she lay in her bed, weeping the bitter rebellious tears of youth until at last tears were all wept out and the little patient ache that was to be in her heart until she died took their place.

She clung to Miss Oliver, who knew what to say and what not to say. So few people did. Kind, well-meaning callers and comforters gave Rilla some terrible moments.

ā€œYouā€™ll get over it in time,ā€ Mrs. William Reese said, cheerfully. Mrs. Reese had three stalwart sons, not one of whom had gone to the front.

ā€œItā€™s such a blessing it was Walter who was taken and not Jem,ā€ said Miss Sarah Clow. ā€œWalter was a member of the church, and Jem wasnā€™t. Iā€™ve told Mr. Meredith many a time that he should have spoken seriously to Jem about it before he went away.ā€

ā€œPore, pore Walter,ā€ sighed Mrs. Reese.

ā€œDo not you come here calling him poor Walter,ā€ said Susan indignantly, appearing in the kitchen door, much to the relief of Rilla, who felt that she could endure no more just then. ā€œHe was not poor. He was richer than any of you. It is you who stay at home and will not let your sons go who are poorā€”poor and naked and mean and smallā€”pisen poor, and so are your sons, with all their prosperous farms and fat cattle and their souls no bigger than a fleaā€™sā€”if as big.ā€

ā€œI came here to comfort the afflicted and not to be insulted,ā€ said Mrs. Reese, taking her departure, unregretted by anyone. Then the fire went out of Susan and she retreated to her kitchen, laid her faithful old head on the table and wept bitterly for a time. Then she went to work and ironed Jimsā€™s little rompers. Rilla scolded her gently for it when she herself came in to do it.

ā€œI am not going to have you kill yourself working for any war-baby,ā€ Susan said obstinately.

ā€œOh, I wish I could just keep on working all the time, Susan,ā€ cried poor Rilla. ā€œAnd I wish I didnā€™t have to go to sleep. It is hideous to go to sleep and forget it for a little while, and wake up and have it all rush over me anew the next morning. Do people ever get used to things like this, Susan? And oh, Susan, I canā€™t get away from what Mrs. Reese said. Did Walter suffer muchā€”he was always so sensitive to pain. Oh, Susan, if I knew that he didnā€™t I think I could gather up a little courage and strength.ā€

This merciful knowledge was given to Rilla. A letter came from Walterā€™s commanding officer, telling them that he had been killed instantly by a bullet during a charge at Courcelette. The same day there was a letter for Rilla from Walter himself.

Rilla carried it unopened to Rainbow Valley and read it there, in the spot where she had had her last talk with him. It is a strange thing to read a letter after the writer is deadā€”a bitter-sweet thing, in which pain and comfort are strangely mingled. For the first time since the blow had fallen Rilla feltā€”a different thing from tremulous hope and faithā€”that Walter, of the glorious gift and the splendid ideals, still lived, with just the same gift and just the same ideals. That could not be destroyedā€”these could suffer no eclipse. The personality that had expressed itself in that last letter, written on the eve of Courcelette, could not be snuffed out by a German bullet. It must carry on, though the earthly link with things of earth were broken.

ā€œWeā€™re going over the top tomorrow, Rilla-my-Rilla,ā€ wrote Walter. ā€œI wrote mother and Di yesterday, but somehow I feel as if I must write you tonight. I hadnā€™t intended to do any writing tonightā€”but Iā€™ve got to. Do you remember old Mrs. Tom Crawford over-harbour, who was always saying that it was ā€˜laid on herā€™ to do such and such a thing?

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