For the first time since the
blow had fallen Rilla felt--a different thing from tremulous hope and
faith--that Walter, of the glorious gift and the splendid ideals, still
lived, with just the same gift and just the same ideals. That could not
be destroyed--these could suffer no eclipse. The personality that had
expressed itself in that last letter, written on the eve of Courcelette,
could not be snuffed out by a German bullet. It must carry on, though
the earthly link with things of earth were broken.
"We're going over the top tomorrow, Rilla-my-Rilla," wrote Walter. "I
wrote mother and Di yesterday, but somehow I feel as if I must write you
tonight. I hadn't intended to do any writing tonight--but I've got to.
Do you remember old Mrs. Tom Crawford over-harbour, who was always
saying that it was 'laid on her' to do such and such a thing? Well, that
is just how I feel. It's 'laid on me' to write you tonight--you, sister
and chum of mine. There are some things I want to say before--well,
before tomorrow.
"You and Ingleside seem strangely near me tonight. It's the first time
I've felt this since I came. Always home has seemed so far away--so
hopelessly far away from this hideous welter of filth and blood. But
tonight it is quite close to me--it seems to me I can almost see you--
hear you speak. And I can see the moonlight shining white and still on
the old hills of home.
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