Two of them were sleeping under the Flanders poppies--Alec Burr
from the Upper Glen, and Clark Manley of Lowbridge. Others were wounded
in the hospitals. But so far nothing had touched the manse and the
Ingleside boys. They seemed to bear charmed lives. Yet the suspense
never grew any easier to bear as the weeks and months of war went by.
"It isn't as if it were some sort of fever to which you might conclude
they were immune when they hadn't taken it for two years," sighed Rilla.
"The danger is just as great and just as real as it was the first day
they went into the trenches. I know this, and it tortures me every day.
And yet I can't help hoping that since they've come this far unhurt
they'll come through. Oh, Miss Oliver, what would it be like not to wake
up in the morning feeling afraid of the news the day would bring? I
can't picture such a state of things somehow. And two years ago this
morning I woke wondering what delightful gift the new day would give me.
These are the two years I thought would be filled with fun."
"Would you exchange them--now--for two years filled with fun?"
"No," said Rilla slowly. "I wouldn't. It's strange--isn't it?--They
have been two terrible years--and yet I have a queer feeling of
thankfulness for them--as if they had brought me something very
precious, with all their pain. I wouldn't want to go back and be the
girl I was two years ago, not even if I could.
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