front.

"It's such a blessing it was Walter who was taken and not Jem," said
Miss Sarah Clow. "Walter was a member of the church, and Jem wasn't.
I've told Mr. Meredith many a time that he should have spoken seriously
to Jem about it before he went away."

"Pore, pore Walter," sighed Mrs. Reese.

"Do not you come here calling him poor Walter," said Susan indignantly,
appearing in the kitchen door, much to the relief of Rilla, who felt
that she could endure no more just then. "He was not poor. He was
richer than any of you. It is you who stay at home and will not let
your sons go who are poor--poor and naked and mean and small--pisen
poor, and so are your sons, with all their prosperous farms and fat
cattle and their souls no bigger than a flea's--if as big."

"I came here to comfort the afflicted and not to be insulted," said
Mrs. Reese, taking her departure, unregretted by anyone. Then the fire
went out of Susan and she retreated to her kitchen, laid her faithful
old head on the table and wept bitterly for a time. Then she went to
work and ironed Jims's little rompers. Rilla scolded her gently for it
when she herself came in to do it.

"I am not going to have you kill yourself working for any war-baby,"
Susan said obstinately.

"Oh, I wish I could just keep on working all the time, Susan," cried
poor Rilla. "And I wish I didn't have to go to sleep. It is hideous to
go to sleep and forget it for a little while, and wake up and have it
all rush over me anew the next morning. Do people ever get used to
things like this, Susan? And oh, Susan, I can't get away from what Mrs.
Reese said. Did Walter suffer much--he was always so sensitive to pain.
Oh, Susan, if I knew that he didn't I think I could gather up a little
courage and strength."

This merciful knowledge was given to Rilla. A letter came from Walter's
commanding officer, telling them that he had been killed instantly by a
bullet during a charge at Courcelette. The same day there was a letter
for Rilla from Walter himself.

Rilla carried it unopened to Rainbow Valley and read it there, in the
spot where she had had her last talk with him. It is a strange thing to
read a letter after the writer is dead--a bitter-sweet thing, in which
pain and comfort are strangely mingled. For the first time since the
blow had fallen Rilla felt--a different thing from tremulous hope and
faith--that Walter, of the glorious gift and the splendid ideals, still
lived, with just