e and went out and hollered at him but he paid no
'tention to me. He was sitting all alone in the moonlight out there at
the end of the platform, and every few minutes the poor lonely little
beggar'd lift his nose and howl as if his heart was breaking. He never
did it afore--always slept in his kennel real quiet and canny from
train to train. But he sure had something on his mind last night."

Dog Monday was lying in his kennel. He wagged his tail and licked
Rilla's hand. But he would not touch the food she brought for him.

"I'm afraid he's sick," she said anxiously. She hated to go away and
leave him. But no bad news came that day--nor the next--nor the next.
Rilla's fear lifted. Dog Monday howled no more and resumed his routine
of train meeting and watching. When five days had passed the Ingleside
people began to feel that they might be cheerful again. Rilla dashed
about the kitchen helping Susan with the breakfast and singing so
sweetly and clearly that Cousin Sophia across the road heard her and
croaked out to Mrs. Albert,

"'Sing before eating, cry before sleeping,' I've always heard."

But Rilla Blythe shed no tears before the nightfall. When her father,
his face grey and drawn and old, came to her that afternoon and told
her that Walter had been killed in action at Courcelette she crumpled
up in a pitiful little heap of merciful unconsciousness in his arms.
Nor did she waken to her pain for many hours.

CHAPTER XXIII

"AND SO, GOODNIGHT"

The fierce flame of agony had burned itself out and the grey dust of
its ashes was over all the world. Rilla's younger life recovered
physically sooner than her mother. For weeks Mrs. Blythe lay ill from
grief and shock. Rilla found it was possible to go on with existence,
since existence had still to be reckoned with. There was work to be
done, for Susan could not do all. For her mother's sake she had to put
on calmness and endurance as a garment in the day; but night after
night she lay in her bed, weeping the bitter rebellious tears of youth
until at last tears were all wept out and the little patient ache that
was to be in her heart until she died took their place.

She clung to Miss Oliver, who knew what to say and what not to say. So
few people did. Kind, well-meaning callers and comforters gave Rilla
some terrible moments.

"You'll get over it in time," Mrs. William Reese said, cheerfully. Mrs.
Reese had three stalwart sons, not one of whom had gone to the