But there was a
certain distinction of bearing and features in this soldier that caught
his attention and made him wonder a little more interestedly who he was.
A black-and-yellow streak shot past the station agent. Dog Monday stiff?
Dog Monday rheumatic? Dog Monday old? Never believe it. Dog Monday was a
young pup, gone clean mad with rejuvenating joy.
He flung himself against the tall soldier, with a bark that choked in
his throat from sheer rapture. He flung himself on the ground and
writhed in a frenzy of welcome. He tried to climb the soldier's khaki
legs and slipped down and groveled in an ecstasy that seemed as if it
must tear his little body in pieces. He licked his boots and when the
lieutenant had, with laughter on his lips and tears in his eyes,
succeeded in gathering the little creature up in his arms Dog Monday
laid his head on the khaki shoulder and licked the sunburned neck,
making queer sounds between barks and sobs.
The station agent had heard the story of Dog Monday. He knew now who the
returned soldier was. Dog Monday's long vigil was ended. Jem Blythe had
come home.
"We are all very happy--and sad--and thankful," wrote Rilla in her
diary a week later, "though Susan has not yet recovered--never will
recover, I believe--from the shock of having Jem come home the very
night she had, owing to a strenuous day, prepared a 'pick up' supper.
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