Nothing had been
discovered concerning him, in spite of all efforts. Two or three letters
had come from him, written before the trench raid, and since then there
had been only unbroken silence. Now the Germans were again at the Marne,
pressing nearer and nearer Paris; now rumours were coming of another
Austrian offensive against the Piave line. Rilla turned away from the
new star, sick at heart. It was one of the moments when hope and courage
failed her utterly--when it seemed impossible to go on even one more
day. If only they knew what had happened to Jem--you can face anything
you know. But a beleaguerment of fear and doubt and suspense is a hard
thing for the morale. Surely, if Jem were alive, some word would have
come through. He must be dead. Only--they would never know--they could
never be quite sure; and Dog Monday would wait for the train until he
died of old age. Monday was only a poor, faithful, rheumatic little dog,
who knew nothing more of his master's fate than they did.
Rilla had a "white night" and did not fall asleep until late. When she
wakened Gertrude Oliver was sitting at her window leaning out to meet
the silver mystery of the dawn. Her clever, striking profile, with the
masses of black hair behind it, came out clearly against the pallid gold
of the eastern sky. Rilla remembered Jem's admiration of the curve of
Miss Oliver's brow and chin, and she shuddered.
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