Rainbow
Valley was roofed over with a sunset of unusual splendour that night; a
wonderful grey dusk just touched with starlight followed it; and then
came moonshine, hinting, hiding, revealing, lighting up little dells and
hollows here, leaving others in dark, velvet shadow.
"When I am 'somewhere in France,'" said Walter, looking around him with
eager eyes on all the beauty his soul loved, "I shall remember these
still, dewy, moon-drenched places. The balsam of the fir-trees; the
peace of those white pools of moonshine; the 'strength of the hills'--
what a beautiful old Biblical phrase that is. Rilla! Look at those old
hills around us--the hills we looked up at as children, wondering what
lay for us in the great world beyond them. How calm and strong they are
--how patient and changeless--like the heart of a good woman.
Rilla-my-Rilla, do you know what you have been to me the past year? I
want to tell you before I go. I could not have lived through it if it
had not been for you, little loving, believing heart."
Rilla dared not try to speak. She slipped her hand into Walter's and
pressed it hard.
"And when I'm over there, Rilla, in that hell upon earth which men who
have forgotten God have made, it will be the thought of you that will
help me most. I know you'll be as plucky and patient as you have shown
yourself to be this past year--I'm not afraid for you.
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