ubmarined ship sinking beneath pitiless waves
amid the struggles and cries of drowning men. Then word came that
Kenneth's regiment had arrived safely in England; and now, at last,
here was his letter. It began with something that made Rilla supremely
happy for the moment and ended with a paragraph that crimsoned her
cheeks with the wonder and thrill and delight of it. Between beginning
and ending the letter was just such a jolly, newsy epistle as Ken might
have written to anyone; but for the sake of that beginning and ending
Rilla slept with the letter under her pillow for weeks, sometimes
waking in the night to slip her fingers under and just touch it, and
looked with secret pity on other girls whose sweethearts could never
have written them anything half so wonderful and exquisite. Kenneth was
not the son of a famous novelist for nothing. He "had a way" of
expressing things in a few poignant, significant words that seemed to
suggest far more than they uttered, and never grew stale or flat or
foolish with ever so many scores of readings. Rilla went home from
Rainbow Valley as if she flew rather than walked.

But such moments of uplift were rare that autumn. To be sure, there was
one day in September when great news came of a big Allied victory in
the west and Susan ran out to hoist the flag--the first time she had
hoisted it since the Russian line broke and the last time she was to
hoist it for many dismal moons.

"Likely the Big Push has begun at last, Mrs. Dr. dear," she exclaimed,
"and we will soon see the finish of the Huns. Our boys will be home by
Christmas now. Hurrah!"

Susan was ashamed of herself for hurrahing the minute she had done it,
and apologized meekly for such an outburst of juvenility. "But indeed,
Mrs. Dr. dear, this good news has gone to my head after this awful
summer of Russian slumps and Gallipoli setbacks."

"Good news!" said Miss Oliver bitterly. "I wonder if the women whose
men have been killed for it will call it good news. Just because our
own men are not on that part of the front we are rejoicing as if the
victory had cost no lives."

"Now, Miss Oliver dear, do not take that view of it," deprecated Susan.
"We have not had much to rejoice over of late and yet men were being
killed just the same. Do not let yourself slump like poor Cousin
Sophia. She said, when the word came, 'Ah, it is nothing but a rift in
the clouds. We are up this week but we will be down the next.' 'Well,
Sophia C