folk.
Even Rilla here, my 'lily of the field,' is running a Red Cross Society
full blast and saving a little life for Canada. That's a good piece of
work. Rilla, daughter of Anne, what are you going to call your
war-baby?"

"I'm waiting to hear from Jim Anderson," said Rilla. "He may want to
name his own child."

But as the autumn weeks went by no word came from Jim Anderson, who had
never been heard from since he sailed from Halifax, and to whom the
fate of wife and child seemed a matter of indifference. Eventually
Rilla decided to call the baby James, and Susan opined that Kitchener
should be added thereto. So James Kitchener Anderson became the
possessor of a name somewhat more imposing than himself. The Ingleside
family promptly shortened it to Jims, but Susan obstinately called him
"Little Kitchener" and nothing else.

"Jims is no name for a Christian child, Mrs. Dr. dear," she said
disapprovingly. "Cousin Sophia says it is too flippant, and for once I
consider she utters sense, though I would not please her by openly
agreeing with her. As for the child, he is beginning to look something
like a baby, and I must admit that Rilla is wonderful with him, though
I would not pamper pride by saying so to her face. Mrs. Dr. dear, I
shall never, no never, forget the first sight I had of that infant,
lying in that big soup tureen, rolled up in dirty flannel. It is not
often that Susan Baker is flabbergasted, but flabbergasted I was then,
and that you may tie to. For one awful moment I thought my mind had
given way and that I was seeing visions. Then thinks I, 'No, I never
heard of anyone having a vision of a soup tureen, so it must be real at
least,' and I plucked up confidence. When I heard the doctor tell Rilla
that she must take care of the baby I thought he was joking, for I did
not believe for a minute she would or could do it. But you see what has
happened and it is making a woman of her. When we have to do a thing,
Mrs. Dr. dear, we can do it."

Susan added another proof to this concluding dictum of hers one day in
October. The doctor and his wife were away. Rilla was presiding over
Jims' afternoon siesta upstairs, purling four and knitting one with
ceaseless vim. Susan was seated on the back veranda, shelling beans,
and Cousin Sophia was helping her. Peace and tranquility brooded over
the Glen; the sky was fleeced over with silvery, shining clouds.
Rainbow Valley lay in a soft, autumnal haze of fairy purple. Th