len station. The dawn was white as a pearl, clear as
a diamond. Behind the station the balsamy copse of young firs was
frost-misted. The cold moon of dawn hung over the westering snow fields
but the golden fleeces of sunrise shone above the maples up at
Ingleside. Joe took his pale little bride in his arms and she lifted
her face to his. Rilla choked suddenly. It did not matter that Miranda
was insignificant and commonplace and flat-featured. It did not matter
that she was the daughter of Whiskers-on-the-moon. All that mattered
was that rapt, sacrificial look in her eyes--that ever-burning, sacred
fire of devotion and loyalty and fine courage that she was mutely
promising Joe she and thousands of other women would keep alive at home
while their men held the Western front. Rilla walked away, realising
that she must not spy on such a moment. She went down to the end of the
platform where Sir Wilfrid and Dog Monday were sitting, looking at each
other.

Sir Wilfrid remarked condescendingly: "Why do you haunt this old shed
when you might lie on the hearthrug at Ingleside and live on the fat of
the land? Is it a pose? Or a fixed idea?"

Whereat Dog Monday, laconically: "I have a tryst to keep."

When the train had gone Rilla rejoined the little trembling Miranda.
"Well, he's gone," said Miranda, "and he may never come back--but I'm
his wife, and I'm going to be worthy of him. I'm going home."

"Don't you think you had better come with me now?" asked Rilla
doubtfully. Nobody knew yet how Mr. Pryor had taken the matter.

"No. If Joe can face the Huns I guess I can face father," said Miranda
daringly. "A soldier's wife can't be a coward. Come on, Wilfy. I'll go
straight home and meet the worst."

There was nothing very dreadful to face, however. Perhaps Mr. Pryor had
reflected that housekeepers were hard to get and that there were many
Milgrave homes open to Miranda--also, that there was such a thing as a
separation allowance. At all events, though he told her grumpily that
she had made a nice fool of herself, and would live to regret it, he
said nothing worse, and Mrs. Joe put on her apron and went to work as
usual, while Sir Wilfrid Laurier, who had a poor opinion of lighthouses
for winter residences, went to sleep in his pet nook behind the
woodbox, a thankful dog that he was done with war-weddings.

CHAPTER XIX

"THEY SHALL NOT PASS"

One cold grey morning in February Gertrude Oliver wakened with a
shiver, sli