were singing in the marshes, the dim, ensilvered fields of home lay all around them. The spring night was lovely and appealing. Rilla felt that its beauty was an insult to her pain. She would hate moonlight forever.
“You know?” said Walter.
“Yes. Irene told me,” answered Rilla chokingly. “We didn’t want you to know till the evening was over. I knew when you came out for the drill that you had heard. Little sister, I had to do it. I couldn’t live any longer on such terms with myself as I have been since the Lusitania was sunk. When I pictured those dead women and children floating about in that pitiless, ice-cold water—well, at first I just felt a sort of nausea with life. I wanted to get out of the world where such a thing could happen—shake its accursed dust from my feet forever. Then I knew I had to go.”
“There are—plenty—without you.”
“That isn’t the point, Rilla-my-Rilla. I’m going for my own sake—to save my soul alive. It will shrink to something small and mean and lifeless if I don't go. That would be worse than blindness or mutilation or any of the things I’ve feared.”
“You may—be—killed,” Rilla hated herself for saying it—she knew it was a weak and cowardly thing to say—but she had rather gone to pieces after the tension of the evening.
“‘Comes he slow or comes he fast
It is but death who comes at last.’”
quoted Walter. “It’s not death I fear—I told you
that long ago. One can pay too high a price for mere
