Blythe's room on her way to bed to see if her adored Mrs. Dr. dear were
"comfortable and composed." She paused solemnly at the foot of the bed
and solemnly declared,
"Mrs. Dr. dear, I have made up my mind to be a heroine."
"Mrs. Dr. dear" found herself violently inclined to laugh--which was
manifestly unfair, since she had not laughed when Rilla had announced a
similar heroic determination. To be sure, Rilla was a slim, white-robed
thing, with a flower-like face and starry young eyes aglow with feeling;
whereas Susan was arrayed in a grey flannel nightgown of strait
simplicity, and had a strip of red woollen worsted tied around her grey
hair as a charm against neuralgia. But that should not make any vital
difference. Was it not the spirit that counted? Yet Mrs. Blythe was hard
put to it not to laugh.
"I am not," proceeded Susan firmly, "going to lament or whine or
question the wisdom of the Almighty any more as I have been doing
lately. Whining and shirking and blaming Providence do not get us
anywhere. We have just got to grapple with whatever we have to do
whether it is weeding the onion patch, or running the Government. I
shall grapple. Those blessed boys have gone to war; and we women, Mrs.
Dr. dear, must tarry by the stuff and keep a stiff upper lip."
CHAPTER VII
A WAR-BABY AND A SOUP TUREEN
"Liege and Namur--and now Brussels!" The doctor shook his head.
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