not, Tomascow and Mobbage and all such
barbarous names to the contrary notwithstanding. Mrs. Dr. dear, can you
tell me if R-h-e-i-m-s is Rimes or Reems or Rames or Rems?"

"I believe it's really more like 'Rhangs,' Susan."

"Oh, those French names," groaned Susan.

"They tell me the Germans has about ruined the church there," sighed
Cousin Sophia. "I always thought the Germans was Christians."

"A church is bad enough but their doings in Belgium are far worse,"
said Susan grimly. "When I heard the doctor reading about them
bayonetting the babies, Mrs. Dr. dear, I just thought, 'Oh, what if it
were our little Jem!' I was stirring the soup when that thought came to
me and I just felt that if I could have lifted that saucepan full of
that boiling soup and thrown it at the Kaiser I would not have lived in
vain."

"Tomorrow--tomorrow--will bring the news that the Germans are in
Paris," said Gertrude Oliver, through her tense lips. She had one of
those souls that are always tied to the stake, burning in the suffering
of the world around them. Apart from her own personal interest in the
war, she was racked by the thought of Paris falling into the ruthless
hands of the hordes who had burned Louvain and ruined the wonder of
Rheims.

But on the morrow and the next morrow came the news of the miracle of
the Marne. Rilla rushed madly home from the office waving the
Enterprise with its big red headlines. Susan ran out with trembling
hands to hoist the flag. The doctor stalked about muttering "Thank
God." Mrs. Blythe cried and laughed and cried again.

"God just put out His hand and touched them--'thus far--no farther',"
said Mr. Meredith that evening.

Rilla was singing upstairs as she put the baby to bed. Paris was
saved--the war was over--Germany had lost--there would soon be an end
now--Jem and Jerry would be back. The black clouds had rolled by.

"Don't you dare have colic this joyful night," she told the baby. "If
you do I'll clap you back into your soup tureen and ship you off to
Hopetown--by freight--on the early train. You have got beautiful
eyes--and you're not quite as red and wrinkled as you were--but you
haven't a speck of hair--and your hands are like little claws--and I
don't like you a bit better than I ever did. But I hope your poor
little white mother knows that you're tucked in a soft basket with a
bottle of milk as rich as Morgan allows instead of perishing by inches
with old Meg Conover. And I hope she