And one day in early May, when wind and sunshine frolicked in
Rainbow Valley and the maple grove was golden-green and the harbour all
blue and dimpled and white-capped, the news came about Jem.
There had been a trench raid on the Canadian front--a little trench
raid so insignificant that it was never even mentioned in the dispatches
and when it was over Lieutenant James Blythe was reported "wounded and
missing."
"I think this is even worse than the news of his death would have been,"
moaned Rilla through her white lips, that night.
"No--no--'missing' leaves a little hope, Rilla," urged Gertrude
Oliver.
"Yes--torturing, agonized hope that keeps you from ever becoming quite
resigned to the worst," said Rilla. "Oh, Miss Oliver--must we go for
weeks and months--not knowing whether Jem is alive or dead? Perhaps we
will never know. I--I cannot bear it--I cannot. Walter--and now Jem.
This will kill mother--look at her face, Miss Oliver, and you will see
that. And Faith--poor Faith--how can she bear it?"
Gertrude shivered with pain. She looked up at the pictures hanging over
Rilla's desk and felt a sudden hatred of Mona Lisa's endless smile.
"Will not even this blot it off your face?" she thought savagely.
But she said gently, "No, it won't kill your mother. She's made of finer
mettle than that. Besides, she refuses to believe Jem is dead; she will
cling to hope and we must all do that.
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