They had been good friends then,
though Hannah had been three years the older. She had married very young
and had gone to live in Millward. What with hard work and babies and a
ne'er-do-well husband, her life had not been an easy one, and Hannah
seldom revisited her old home. Rilla had visited her once soon after her
marriage, but had not seen her or even heard of her for years; she knew,
however, that she and Jims would find welcome and harbourage in any
house where rosy-faced, open-hearted, generous Hannah lived.
For the first mile they got on very well but the second one was harder.
The road, seldom used, was rough and deep-rutted. Jims grew so tired
that Rilla had to carry him for the last quarter. She reached the
Brewster house, almost exhausted, and dropped Jims on the walk with a
sigh of thankfulness. The sky was black with clouds; the first heavy
drops were beginning to fall; and the rumble of thunder was growing very
loud. Then she made an unpleasant discovery. The blinds were all down
and the doors locked. Evidently the Brewsters were not at home. Rilla
ran to the little barn. It, too, was locked. No other refuge presented
itself. The bare whitewashed little house had not even a veranda or
porch.
It was almost dark now and her plight seemed desperate.
"I'm going to get in if I have to break a window," said Rilla
resolutely. "Hannah would want me to do that.
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