and 'enjoyed the
writing of it very much.' I suppose one would call him a philosopher."

"I have read also," said Miss Oliver, "that shortly before his death he
said that his only regret in dying was that he must die before he had
seen what that 'extremely interesting young man, the German Emperor,'
would do in his life. If Ernest Renan 'walked' today and saw what that
interesting young man had done to his beloved France, not to speak of
the world, I wonder if his mental detachment would be as complete as it
was in 1870."

"I wonder where Jem is tonight," thought Rilla, in a sudden bitter
inrush of remembrance.

It was over a month since the news had come about Jem. Nothing had been
discovered concerning him, in spite of all efforts. Two or three
letters had come from him, written before the trench raid, and since
then there had been only unbroken silence. Now the Germans were again
at the Marne, pressing nearer and nearer Paris; now rumours were coming
of another Austrian offensive against the Piave line. Rilla turned away
from the new star, sick at heart. It was one of the moments when hope
and courage failed her utterly--when it seemed impossible to go on even
one more day. If only they knew what had happened to Jem--you can face
anything you know. But a beleaguerment of fear and doubt and suspense
is a hard thing for the morale. Surely, if Jem were alive, some word
would have come through. He must be dead. Only--they would never
know--they could never be quite sure; and Dog Monday would wait for the
train until he died of old age. Monday was only a poor, faithful,
rheumatic little dog, who knew nothing more of his master's fate than
they did.

Rilla had a "white night" and did not fall asleep until late. When she
wakened Gertrude Oliver was sitting at her window leaning out to meet
the silver mystery of the dawn. Her clever, striking profile, with the
masses of black hair behind it, came out clearly against the pallid
gold of the eastern sky. Rilla remembered Jem's admiration of the curve
of Miss Oliver's brow and chin, and she shuddered. Everything that
reminded her of Jem was beginning to give intolerable pain. Walter's
death had inflicted on her heart a terrible wound. But it had been a
clean wound and had healed slowly, as such wounds do, though the scar
must remain for ever. But the torture of Jem's disappearance was
another thing: there was a poison in it that kept it from healing. The
alternations of hop