"I remember telling old Mrs. Taylor long
ago that the world was a world of laughter. But it isn't so any longer."
"It's a shriek of anguish," said Gertrude Oliver.
"We must keep a little laughter, girls," said Mrs. Blythe. "A good laugh
is as good as a prayer sometimes--only sometimes," she added under her
breath. She had found it very hard to laugh during the three weeks she
had just lived through--she, Anne Blythe, to whom laughter had always
come so easily and freshly. And what hurt most was that Rilla's laughter
had grown so rare--Rilla whom she used to think laughed over-much. Was
all the child's girlhood to be so clouded? Yet how strong and clever and
womanly she was growing! How patiently she knitted and sewed and
manipulated those uncertain Junior Reds! And how wonderful she was with
Jims.
"She really could not do better for that child than if she had raised a
baker's dozen, Mrs. Dr. dear," Susan had avowed solemnly. "Little did I
ever expect it of her on the day she landed here with that soup tureen."
CHAPTER XIII
A SLICE OF HUMBLE PIE
"I am very much afraid, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan, who had been on a
pilgrimage to the station with some choice bones for Dog Monday, "that
something terrible has happened. Whiskers-on-the-moon came off the train
from Charlottetown and he was looking pleased. I do not remember that I
ever saw him with a smile on in public before.
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