hopes and dreams.
Realities are very hard to face sometimes even when we find them."

"Yes, I know," Kit said, shortly. "Stanley's going to France, and I
haven't even found out yet how to thank him properly for fishing me out of
the river and saving my life. I wish Billie had done it."

She looked off at the tree-tops that showed as a patch of green in the
river where the island lay, with a deep perplexity in her eyes. Up-stairs
there came the steady whirr of a sewing machine, where little Miss
Dusenberry, the village dressmaker, was already deep in the mysteries of
Jean's trousseau. In the living-room, Helen was practicing her vocal
lesson, trying to follow the rules Mr. Ormond had given her, and Doris was
completely hidden in the big, brown camp hammock under the maples reading
a favorite book. It seemed as though all the members of the family but
herself were following their natural bent, and she couldn't even see a
natural bent ahead of her, nothing but a long winding trail that called.

She gave a quick sigh, and put her head down on her mother's knee, almost
as Doris might have done.

"I'll go through with it, motherie," she said, "high school and anything
else you say, if only some day I can just drop everything and blaze my own
paths."

"Remember, you don't blaze them for yourself, but for those who follow
after." Mrs. Robbins put her arms down around the young shoulders that
already longed to carry burdens. "Stanley was telling us last night of
the death of General Maude at Bagdad. To me he is one of the great heroes
of the war, and the word he left to his soldiers seems like a battle cry
of inspiration to the race. It was just this, 'Carry on.' It's what we
can't avoid, Kit, no matter whether we find ourselves blazing new trails
through the wilderness or trying to find the way to happiness right here
in little old Gilead. You have to 'carry on' for those who come after."

Jean called to her for some advice immediately, and she hurried up-stairs.
Kit sat cogitating over what she had said, just as Stanley came through
the orchard with a huge basket on his shoulder of early sweet apples, the
first fruits of the Greenacre harvest. He set them down beside her with
the old whimsical laugh in his eyes.

"If you'll be a real good girl, Kit, and never call me a berry hooker
again, you can have first pick of these Shepherd Sweetings."

He was only joking, but there was no answering glint of humor in Kit's
eyes.