isn’t likely to happen again. There’s Ken, Rilla.”
Rilla knew Kenneth was there. She had been acutely conscious of it from the moment he had sprung from Leo West's buggy. Now he came up to her smiling.
“Doing the brave-smiling-sister-stunt, I see. What a crowd for the Glen to muster! Well, I’m off home in a few days myself.”
A queer little wind of desolation that even Jem’s going had not caused, blew over Rilla’s spirit.
“Why? You have another month of vacation.”
“Yes—but I can’t hang round Four Winds and enjoy myself when the world’s on fire like this. It’s me for little old Toronto where I'll find some way of helping in spite of this bally ankle. I’m not looking at Jem and Jerry—makes me too sick with envy. You girls are great—no crying, no grim endurance. The boys'll go off with a good taste in their mouths. I hope Persis and mother will be as game when my turn comes.”
“Oh, Kenneth—the war will be over before your turn cometh.”
There! She had lisped again. Another great moment of life spoiled! Well, it was her fate. And anyhow, nothing mattered. Kenneth was off already—he was talking to Ethel Reese, who was dressed, at seven in the morning, in the gown she had worn to the dance, and was crying. What on earth had Ethel to cry about? None of the Reeses were in khaki. Rilla wanted to cry, too—but she would not. What was that horrid old Mrs. Drew saying to mother, in that melancholy whine of hers? “I don’t see how you can stand this, Mrs. Blythe. I couldn’t if it was my pore
