"Let's go on a moon-spree,
Rilla," he would say, and the two of them would scamper off to Rainbow
Valley. Rilla had never been afraid of his beetles and bugs, though she
drew a hard and fast line at snakes. They used to talk together of
almost everything and were teased about each other at school; but one
evening when they were about ten years of age they had solemnly
promised, by the old spring in Rainbow Valley, that they would never
marry each other. Alice Clow had "crossed out" their names on her slate
in school that day, and it came out that "both married." They did not
like the idea at all, hence the mutual vow in Rainbow Valley. There was
nothing like an ounce of prevention. Rilla laughed over the old memory--
and then sighed. That very day a dispatch from some London paper had
contained the cheerful announcement that "the present moment is the
darkest since the war began." It was dark enough, and Rilla wished
desperately that she could do something besides waiting and serving at
home, as day after day the Glen boys she had known went away. If she
were only a boy, speeding in khaki by Carl's side to the Western front!
She had wished that in a burst of romance when Jem had gone, without,
perhaps, really meaning it. She meant it now. There were moments when
waiting at home, in safety and comfort, seemed an unendurable thing.
The moon burst triumphantly through an especially dark cloud and shadow
and silver chased each other in waves over the Glen.
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