Rilla, you beautiful little thing, are you anybody's
sweetheart? If you are, tell me before I go."
"No," said Rilla. Then, impelled by a wish to be absolutely frank with
Walter in this talk that might be the last they would ever have, she
added, blushing wildly in the moonlight, "but if--Kenneth Ford--wanted
me to be--"
"I see," said Walter. "And Ken's in khaki, too. Poor little girlie, it's
a bit hard for you all round. Well, I'm not leaving any girl to break
her heart about me--thank God for that."
Rilla glanced up at the Manse on the hill. She could see a light in Una
Meredith's window. She felt tempted to say something--then she knew she
must not. It was not her secret: and, anyway, she did not know--she
only suspected.
Walter looked about him lingeringly and lovingly. This spot had always
been so dear to him. What fun they all had had here lang syne. Phantoms
of memory seemed to pace the dappled paths and peep merrily through the
swinging boughs--Jem and Jerry, bare-legged, sunburned schoolboys,
fishing in the brook and frying trout over the old stone fireplace; Nan
and Di and Faith, in their dimpled, fresh-eyed childish beauty; Una the
sweet and shy, Carl, poring over ants and bugs, little slangy,
sharp-tongued, good-hearted Mary Vance--the old Walter that had been
himself lying on the grass reading poetry or wandering through palaces
of fancy.
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