Why, in this world of springtime loveliness, must hearts break?
Rilla felt arms go about her lovingly, protectingly. It was mother--
pale, large-eyed mother.
"Oh, mother, how can you bear it?" she cried wildly. "Rilla, dear, I've
known for several days that Walter meant to go. I've had time to--to
rebel and grow reconciled. We must give him up. There is a Call greater
and more insistent than the call of our love--he has listened to it. We
must not add to the bitterness of his sacrifice."
"Our sacrifice is greater than his," cried Rilla passionately. "Our boys
give only themselves. We give them."
Before Mrs. Blythe could reply Susan stuck her head in at the door,
never troubling over such frills of etiquette as knocking. Her eyes were
suspiciously red but all she said was,
"Will I bring up your breakfast, Mrs. Dr. dear."
"No, no, Susan. We will all be down presently. Do you know--that Walter
has joined up."
"Yes, Mrs. Dr. dear. The doctor told me last night. I suppose the
Almighty has His own reasons for allowing such things. We must submit
and endeavour to look on the bright side. It may cure him of being a
poet, at least"--Susan still persisted in thinking that poets and
tramps were tarred with the same brush--"and that would be something.
But thank God," she muttered in a lower tone, "that Shirley is not old
enough to go."
"Isn't that the same thing as thanking Him that some other woman's son
has to go in Shirley's place?" asked the doctor, pausing on the
threshold.
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