"
"What a pity President Wilson can't hear you, Susan," said Rilla slyly.
"Indeed, Rilla dear, it is a pity that he has no one near him to give
him good advice, as it is clear he has not, in all those Democrats and
Republicans," retorted Susan. "I do not know the difference between
them, for the politics of the Yankees is a puzzle I cannot solve, study
it as I may. But as far as seeing through a grindstone goes, I am afraid
--" Susan shook her head dubiously, "that they are all tarred with the
same brush."
"I am thankful Christmas is over," Rilla wrote in her diary during the
last week of a stormy December. "We had dreaded it so--the first
Christmas since Courcelette. But we had all the Merediths down for
dinner and nobody tried to be gay or cheerful. We were all just quiet
and friendly, and that helped. Then, too, I was so thankful that Jims
had got better--so thankful that I almost felt glad--almost but not
quite. I wonder if I shall ever feel really glad over anything again. It
seems as if gladness were killed in me--shot down by the same bullet
that pierced Walter's heart. Perhaps some day a new kind of gladness
will be born in my soul--but the old kind will never live again.
"Winter set in awfully early this year. Ten days before Christmas we had
a big snowstorm--at least we thought it big at the time. As it
happened, it was only a prelude to the real performance.
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