Faith, you may be sure, will do
it."
"I cannot," moaned Rilla, "Jem was wounded--what chance would he have?
Even if the Germans found him--we know how they have treated wounded
prisoners. I wish I could hope, Miss Oliver--it would help, I suppose.
But hope seems dead in me. I can't hope without some reason for it--and
there is no reason."
When Miss Oliver had gone to her own room and Rilla was lying on her bed
in the moonlight, praying desperately for a little strength, Susan
stepped in like a gaunt shadow and sat down beside her.
"Rilla, dear, do not you worry. Little Jem is not dead."
"Oh, how can you believe that, Susan?"
"Because I know. Listen you to me. When that word came this morning the
first thing I thought of was Dog Monday. And tonight, as soon as I got
the supper dishes washed and the bread set, I went down to the station.
There was Dog Monday, waiting for the train, just as patient as usual.
Now, Rilla, dear, that trench raid was four days ago--last Monday--and
I said to the station-agent, 'Can you tell me if that dog howled or made
any kind of a fuss last Monday night?' He thought it over a bit, and
then he said, 'No, he did not.' 'Are you sure?' I said. 'There's more
depends on it than you think!' 'Dead sure,' he said. 'I was up all night
last Monday night because my mare was sick, and there was never a sound
out of him. I would have heard if there had been, for the stable door
was open all the time and his kennel is right across from it!' Now Rilla
dear, those were the man's very words.
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