“Oh, mother, how can you bear it?” she cried wildly.
“Rilla, dear, I’ve known for several days that Walter meant to go. I’ve had time to—to rebel and grow reconciled. We must give him up. There is a Call greater and more insistent than the call of our love—he has listened to it. We must not add to the bitterness of his sacrifice.”
“Our sacrifice is greater than his,” cried Rilla passionately. “Our boys give only themselves. We give them.”
Before Mrs. Blythe could reply Susan stuck her head in at the door, never troubling over such frills of etiquette as knocking. Her eyes were suspiciously red but all she said was,
“Will I bring up your breakfast, Mrs. Dr. dear.”
“No, no, Susan. We will all be down presently. Do you know—that Walter has joined up.”
“Yes, Mrs. Dr. dear. The doctor told me last night. I suppose the Almighty has his own reasons for allowing such things. We must submit and endeavour to look on the bright side. It may cure him of being a poet, at least”—Susan still persisted in thinking that poets and tramps were tarred with the same brush—“and that would be something. But thank God,” she muttered in a lower tone, “that Shirley is not old enough to go.”
“Isn’t that the same thing as thanking him that some other woman’s son has to go in Shirley’s place?” asked the doctor, pausing on the threshold.
“No, it is not, Dr. dear,” said Susan defiantly, as she picked up Jims, who was opening his big dark eyes and stretching up his dimpled paws. “Do not you
