cuddle her kittens. Something delightful and yearning and brooding seemed to have taken possession of her. She had never felt like this before.
In a few minutes Jims was sound asleep; and, as Rilla listened to his soft, regular breathing and felt the little body warm and contented against her, she realized that—at last—she loved her war-baby.
“He has got to be—such—a—darling,” she thought drowsily, as she drifted off to slumberland herself.
In February Jem and Jerry and Robert Grant were in the trenches and a little more tension and dread was added to the Ingleside life. In March “Yiprez” as Susan called it, had come to have a bitter significance. The daily list of casualties had begun to appear in the papers and no one at Ingleside ever answered the telephone without a horrible cold shrinking—for it might be the station master ’phoning up to say a telegram had come from overseas. No one at Ingleside ever got up in the morning without a sudden piercing wonder over what the day might bring.
“And I used to welcome the mornings so,” thought Rilla.
Yet the round of life and duty went steadily on and every week or so some one else went into khaki from the Glen lads who had just the other day been rollicking schoolboys.
“It is bitter cold out tonight, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan, coming in out of the clear starlit crispness of the Canadian winter twilight. “I wonder if the boys in the trenches are warm.”
“How everything comes back to this war,” cried Gertrude Oliver. “We can’t get away from it—not
