The dawn was white as a pearl, clear as
a diamond. Behind the station the balsamy copse of young firs was
frost-misted. The cold moon of dawn hung over the westering snow fields
but the golden fleeces of sunrise shone above the maples up at
Ingleside. Joe took his pale little bride in his arms and she lifted her
face to his. Rilla choked suddenly. It did not matter that Miranda was
insignificant and commonplace and flat-featured. It did not matter that
she was the daughter of Whiskers-on-the-moon. All that mattered was that
rapt, sacrificial look in her eyes--that ever-burning, sacred fire of
devotion and loyalty and fine courage that she was mutely promising Joe
she and thousands of other women would keep alive at home while their
men held the Western front. Rilla walked away, realising that she must
not spy on such a moment. She went down to the end of the platform where
Sir Wilfrid and Dog Monday were sitting, looking at each other.
Sir Wilfrid remarked condescendingly: "Why do you haunt this old shed
when you might lie on the hearthrug at Ingleside and live on the fat of
the land? Is it a pose? Or a fixed idea?"
Whereat Dog Monday, laconically: "I have a tryst to keep."
When the train had gone Rilla rejoined the little trembling Miranda.
"Well, he's gone," said Miranda, "and he may never come back--but I'm
his wife, and I'm going to be worthy of him.
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