t they would never
marry each other. Alice Clow had "crossed out" their names on her slate
in school that day, and it came out that "both married." They did not
like the idea at all, hence the mutual vow in Rainbow Valley. There was
nothing like an ounce of prevention. Rilla laughed over the old
memory--and then sighed. That very day a dispatch from some London
paper had contained the cheerful announcement that "the present moment
is the darkest since the war began." It was dark enough, and Rilla
wished desperately that she could do something besides waiting and
serving at home, as day after day the Glen boys she had known went
away. If she were only a boy, speeding in khaki by Carl's side to the
Western front! She had wished that in a burst of romance when Jem had
gone, without, perhaps, really meaning it. She meant it now. There were
moments when waiting at home, in safety and comfort, seemed an
unendurable thing.

The moon burst triumphantly through an especially dark cloud and shadow
and silver chased each other in waves over the Glen. Rilla remembered
one moonlit evening of childhood when she had said to her mother, "The
moon just looks like a sorry, sorry face." She thought it looked like
that still--an agonised, care-worn face, as though it looked down on
dreadful sights. What did it see on the Western front? In broken
Serbia? On shell-swept Gallipoli?

"I am tired," Miss Oliver had said that day, in a rare outburst of
impatience, "of this horrible rack of strained emotions, when every day
brings a new horror or the dread of it. No, don't look reproachfully at
me, Mrs. Blythe. There's nothing heroic about me today. I've slumped. I
wish England had left Belgium to her fate--I wish Canada had never sent
a man--I wish we'd tied our boys to our apron strings and not let one
of them go. Oh--I shall be ashamed of myself in half an hour--but at
this very minute I mean every word of it. Will the Allies never strike?"

"Patience is a tired mare but she jogs on," said Susan.

"While the steeds of Armageddon thunder, trampling over our hearts,"
retorted Miss Oliver. "Susan, tell me--don't you ever--didn't you
ever--take spells of feeling that you must scream--or swear--or smash
something--just because your torture reaches a point when it becomes
unbearable?"

"I have never sworn or desired to swear, Miss Oliver dear, but I will
admit," said Susan, with the air of one determined to make a clean
breast of it once and fo