Reese, taking her departure, unregretted by anyone. Then the fire went
out of Susan and she retreated to her kitchen, laid her faithful old
head on the table and wept bitterly for a time. Then she went to work
and ironed Jims's little rompers. Rilla scolded her gently for it when
she herself came in to do it.
"I am not going to have you kill yourself working for any war-baby,"
Susan said obstinately.
"Oh, I wish I could just keep on working all the time, Susan," cried
poor Rilla. "And I wish I didn't have to go to sleep. It is hideous to
go to sleep and forget it for a little while, and wake up and have it
all rush over me anew the next morning. Do people ever get used to
things like this, Susan? And oh, Susan, I can't get away from what Mrs.
Reese said. Did Walter suffer much--he was always so sensitive to pain.
Oh, Susan, if I knew that he didn't I think I could gather up a little
courage and strength."
This merciful knowledge was given to Rilla. A letter came from Walter's
commanding officer, telling them that he had been killed instantly by a
bullet during a charge at Courcelette. The same day there was a letter
for Rilla from Walter himself.
Rilla carried it unopened to Rainbow Valley and read it there, in the
spot where she had had her last talk with him. It is a strange thing to
read a letter after the writer is dead--a bitter-sweet thing, in which
pain and comfort are strangely mingled.
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