“Matter? Of course it will matter to the lucky fellows who will be able to take a hand. I won’t—thanks to this confounded ankle. Rotten luck, I call it.”
“I don’t see why we should fight England’s battles,” cried Rilla. “She’s quite able to fight them herself.”
“That isn’t the point. We are part of the British Empire. It’s a family affair. We've got to stand by each other. The worst of it is, it will all be over before I can be of any use.”
“Do you mean that you would really volunteer to go if it wasn’t for your ankle?” asked Rilla incredulously. The idea seemed so—so ridiculous.
“Sure I would. You see they'll go by thousands. Jem’ll be off, I'll bet a cent—Walter won’t be strong enough yet, I suppose. And Jerry Meredith—he'll go! Oh, boys! And I was worrying about being out of football this year!”
Rilla was too startled to say anything. Jem—and Jerry! Nonsense! Why father and Mr. Meredith wouldn’t allow it. They weren't through college. Oh, why hadn’t Jack Elliott kept his horrid news to himself?
Mark Warren came up and asked her to dance. Rilla went, knowing Kenneth didn’t care whether she went or stayed. An hour ago on the sandshore he had been looking at her as if she were the only being of any importance in the world. And now she was nobody. His thoughts were full of this Great Game which was to be played out on blood-stained fields with empires for stakes—a Game in which womenkind could have no part. Women, thought Rilla miserably, just had to sit and cry at home. But all this was
