did not speak to anyone. She went down to see Dog Monday and the station master said,
“That dog of yours howled from midnight to sunrise something weird. I dunno what got into him. He kept the wife awake and I got up once and went out and hollered at him but he paid no ’tention to me. He was sitting all alone in the moonlight out there at the end of the platform, and every few minutes the poor lonely little beggar’d lift his nose and howl as if his heart was breaking. He never did it afore—always slept in his kennel real quiet and canny from train to train. But he sure had something on his mind last night.”
Dog Monday was lying in his kennel. He wagged his tail and licked Rilla’s hand. But he would not touch the food she brought for him.
“I’m afraid he’s sick,’ she said anxiously. She hated to go away and leave him. But no bad news came that day—nor the next—nor the next. Rilla’s fear lifted. Dog Monday howled no more and resumed his routine of train meeting and watching. When five days had passed the Ingleside people began to feel that they might be cheerful again. Rilla dashed about the kitchen helping Susan with the breakfast and singing so sweetly and clearly that Cousin Sophia across the road heard her and croaked out to Mrs. Albert.
“Sing before eating, cry before sleeping,’ I’ve always heard.”
But Rilla Blythe shed no tears before the nightfall. When her father, his face grey and drawn and old, came to her that afternoon and told her that Walter had been killed in action at Courcelette she crumpled
