But you must not go unless your mother says you may."
Shirley said nothing more. He was not a lad of many words. Anne did not
say anything more just then, either. She was thinking of little Joyce's
grave in the old burying-ground over-harbour--little Joyce who would
have been a woman now, had she lived--of the white cross in France and
the splendid grey eyes of the little boy who had been taught his first
lessons of duty and loyalty at her knee--of Jem in the terrible
trenches--of Nan and Di and Rilla, waiting--waiting--waiting, while
the golden years of youth passed by--and she wondered if she could bear
any more. She thought not; surely she had given enough.
Yet that night she told Shirley that he might go.
They did not tell Susan right away. She did not know it until, a few
days later, Shirley presented himself in her kitchen in his aviation
uniform. Susan didn't make half the fuss she had made when Jem and
Walter had gone. She said stonily, "So they're going to take you, too."
"Take me? No. I'm going, Susan--got to."
Susan sat down by the table, folded her knotted old hands, that had
grown warped and twisted working for the Ingleside children to still
their shaking, and said:
"Yes, you must go. I did not see once why such things must be, but I can
see now."
"You're a brick, Susan," said Shirley. He was relieved that she took it
so coolly--he had been a little afraid, with a boy's horror of "a
scene.
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