I will even laugh—through all my years, because of you and because of what you gave when you followed the call.”
Rilla meant to keep Walter’s letter as a sacred treasure. But, seeing the look on Una Meredith’s face when Una had read it and held it back to her, she thought of something. Could she do it? Oh, no, she could not give up Walter’s letter—his last letter. Surely it was not selfishness to keep it. A copy would be such a soulless thing. But Una—Una had so little—and her eyes were the eyes of a woman stricken to the heart, who yet must not cry out or ask for sympathy.
“Una, would you like to have this letter—to keep?” she asked slowly.
“Yes—if you can give it to me,” Una said dully.
“Then—you may have it,” said Rilla hurriedly.
“Thank you,” said Una. It was all she said, but there was something in her voice which repaid Rilla for her bit of sacrifice.
Una took the letter and when Rilla had gone she pressed it against her lonely lips. Una knew that love would never come into her life now—it was buried for ever under the blood-stained soil “Somewhere in France.” No one but herself—and perhaps Rilla—knew it—would ever know it. She had no right in the eyes of her world to grieve. She must hide and bear her long pain as best she could—alone. But she, too, would keep faith.
