Rilla of Ingleside

Book 8: Anne of Green Gables

by L.M. Montgomery

Genres: Classics

Synopsis

Rilla of Ingleside by L.M. Montgomery - (1921) is the eighth of nine books in the Anne of Green Gables series by Lucy Maud Montgomery, but was the sixth "Anne" novel in publication order. This book draws the focus back onto a single character, Anne and Gilbert's youngest daughter Bertha Marilla "Rilla" Blythe. It has a more serious tone, as it takes place during World War I and the three Blythe boys-Jem, Walter, and Shirley-along with Rilla's sweetheart Ken Ford, playmates Jerry Meredith and Carl Meredith-end up fighting in Europe with the Canadian Expeditionary Force. Plot summary Set almost a decade after Rainbow Valley, Europe is on the brink of the First World War, and Anne's youngest daughter Rilla is an irrepressible almost-15-year-old, excited about her first adult party and blissfully unaware of the chaos that the Western world is about to enter. Her parents worry because Rilla seems not to have any ambition, is not interested in attending college, and is more concerned with having fun. Once the Continent descends into war, Jem Blythe and Jerry Meredith promptly enlist, upsetting Anne, Nan, and Faith Meredith (whom Rilla suspects is engaged to Jem). Rilla's brother Walter, who is of age, does not enlist, ostensibly due to a recent bout with typhoid but truly because he fears the ugliness of war and death. He confides in Rilla that he feels he is a coward. Rilla was a bit happy because she was closer to Walter than to her brother Jem. The enlisted boys report to Kingsport for training. Jem's dog, Dog Monday, takes up a vigil at the Glen train station waiting for Jem to come back. Rilla's siblings Nan, Di, and Walter return to Redmond College, and Shirley returns to Queen's Academy, leaving Rilla anxiously alone at home with her parents, their spinster housekeeper Susan Baker, and Gertrude Oliver, a teacher who is boarding with the Blythes while her fiancé reports to the front. As the war drags on, Rilla matures, organizing the Junior Red Cross in her village. While collecting donations for the war effort, she comes across a house where a young mother has just died with her husband away at war, leaving no one to care for her two-week-old son. Rilla takes the sickly little boy back to Ingleside in a soup tureen, naming him "James Kitchener Anderson" after his father and, on the insistence of Susan, Herbert Kitchener, British Secretary of State for War. Rilla's father Gilbert challenges her to raise the war orphan, and although she doesn't like babies at all, she rises to the occasion, eventually coming to love "Jims" as her own. She also assists in the elopement of a soldier whose beloved is Miranda Pryor, the daughter of the town's only vocal pacifist; the pacifist's attempts to oppose fund-raising for the war effort or to criticize the war while leading prayers are a recurring minor storyline.

Release date: November 25, 2014

Publisher: Tundra Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

It was a warm, golden-cloudy, lovable afternoon. In the big living-room at Ingleside Susan Baker sat down with a certain grim satisfaction hovering about her like an aura; it was four o’clock and Susan, who had been working incessantly since six that morning, felt that she had fairly earned an hour of repose and gossip. Susan just then was perfectly happy; everything had gone almost uncannily well in the kitchen that day. Dr Jekyll had not been Mr Hyde and so had not grated on her nerves; from where she sat she could see the pride of her heart – the bed of peonies of her own planting and culture, blooming as no other peony plot in Glen St Mary ever did or could bloom, with peonies crimson, peonies silvery pink, peonies white as drifts of winter snow.

Susan had on a new black silk blouse, quite as elaborate as anything Mrs Marshall Elliott ever wore, and a white starched apron, trimmed with complicated crocheted lace fully five inches wide, not to mention insertion to match. Therefore Susan had all the comfortable consciousness of a well-dressed woman as she opened her copy of the Daily Enterprise and prepared to read the Glen ‘Notes’ which, as Miss Cornelia had just informed her, filled half a column of it and mentioned almost everybody at Ingleside. There was a big, black headline on the front page of the Enterprise, stating that some Archduke Ferdinand or other had been assassinated at a place bearing the weird name of Sarajevo, but Susan tarried not over uninteresting, immaterial stuff like that; she was in quest of something really vital. Oh, here it was – ‘Jottings from Glen St Mary.’ Susan settled down keenly, reading each one over aloud to extract all possible gratification from it.

Mrs Blythe and her visitor, Miss Cornelia – alias Mrs Marshall Elliott – were chatting together near the open door that led to the veranda, through which a cool, delicious breeze was blowing, bringing whiffs of phantom perfume from the garden, and charming gay echoes from the vine-hung corner where Rilla and Miss Oliver and Walter were laughing and talking. Wherever Rilla Blythe was, there was laughter.

There was another occupant of the living-room, curled up on a couch, who must not be overlooked, since he was a creature of marked individuality, and, moreover, had the distinction of being the only living thing whom Susan really hated.

All cats are mysterious but Dr Jekyll-and-Mr Hyde – ‘Doc’ for short – were trebly so. He was a cat of double personality – or else, as Susan vowed, he was possessed by the devil. To begin with, there had been something uncanny about the very dawn of his existence. Four years previously Rilla Blythe had had a treasured darling of a kitten, white as snow, with a saucy black tip to its tail, which she called Jack Frost. Susan disliked Jack Frost, though she could not or would not give any valid reason therefor.

‘Take my word for it, Mrs Dr dear,’ she was wont to say ominously, ‘that cat will come to no good.’

‘But why do you think so?’ Mrs Blythe would ask.

‘I do not think – I know,’ was all the answer Susan would vouchsafe.

With the rest of the Ingleside folk Jack Frost was a favourite; he was so very clean and well groomed, and never allowed a spot or stain to be seen on his beautiful white suit; he had endearing ways of purring and snuggling; he was scrupulously honest.

And then a domestic tragedy took place at Ingleside. Jack Frost had kittens!

It would be vain to try to picture Susan’s triumph. Had she not always insisted that that cat would turn out to be a delusion and a snare? Now they could see for themselves!

Rilla kept one of the kittens, a very pretty one, with peculiarly sleek glossy fur of a dark yellow crossed by orange stripes, and large, satiny, golden ears. She called it Goldie and the name seemed appropriate enough to the little frolicsome creature which, during its kittenhood, gave no indication of the sinister nature it really possessed. Susan, of course, warned the family that no good could be expected from any offspring of that diabolical Jack Frost; but Susan’s Cassandra-like croakings were unheeded.

The Blythes had been so accustomed to regard Jack Frost as a member of the male sex that they could not get out of the habit. So they continually used the masculine pronoun, although the result was ludicrous. Visitors used to be quite electrified when Rilla referred casually to ‘Jack and his kitten,’ or told Goldie sternly, ‘Go to your mother and get him to wash your fur.’

‘It is not decent, Mrs Dr dear,’ poor Susan would say bitterly. She herself compromised by always referring to Jack as ‘it’ or ‘the white beast,’ and one heart at least did not ache when ‘it’ was accidentally poisoned the following winter.

In a year’s time Goldie became so manifestly an inadequate name for the orange kitten that Walter, who was just then reading Stevenson’s story, changed it to Dr Jekyll-and-Mr Hyde. In his Dr Jekyll mood the cat was a drowsy, affectionate, domestic, cushion-loving puss, who liked petting and gloried in being nursed and patted. Especially did he love to lie on his back and have his sleek, cream-coloured throat stroked gently while he purred in somnolent satisfaction. He was a notable purrer; never had there been an Ingleside cat who purred so constantly and so ecstatically.

‘The only thing I envy a cat is its purr,’ remarked Dr Blythe once, listening to Doc’s resonant melody. ‘It is the most contented sound in the world.’

Doc was very handsome; his every movement was grace; his poses magnificent. When he folded his long, dusky-ringed tail about his feet and sat himself down on the veranda to gaze steadily into space for long intervals the Blythes felt that an Egyptian sphinx could not have made a more fitting Deity of the Portal.

When the Mr Hyde mood came upon him – which it invariably did before rain, or wind – he was a wild thing with changed eyes. The transformation always came suddenly. He would spring fiercely from a reverie with a savage snarl and bite at any restraining or caressing hand. His fur seemed to grow darker and his eyes gleamed with a diabolical light. There was really an unearthly beauty about him. If the change happened in the twilight all the Ingleside folk felt a certain terror of him. At such times he was a fearsome beast and only Rilla defended him, asserting that he was ‘such a nice prowly cat.’ Certainly he prowled.

Dr Jekyll loved new milk; Mr Hyde would not touch milk and growled over his meat. Dr Jekyll came down the stairs so silently that no one could hear him. Mr Hyde made his tread as heavy as a man’s. Several evenings, when Susan was alone in the house, he ‘scared her stiff,’ as she declared, by doing this. He would sit in the middle of the kitchen floor, with his terrible eyes fixed unwinkingly upon hers for an hour at a time. This played havoc with her nerves, but poor Susan really held him in too much awe to try to drive him out. Once she had dared to throw a stick at him and he had promptly made a savage leap towards her. Susan rushed out of doors and never attempted to meddle with Mr Hyde again – though she visited his misdeeds upon the innocent Dr Jekyll, chasing him out of her domain whenever he dared to poke his nose in and denying him certain savoury tidbits for which he yearned.

‘“The many friends of Miss Faith Meredith, Gerald Meredith and James Blythe,”’ read Susan, rolling the names like sweet morsels under her tongue, ‘“were very much pleased to welcome them home a few weeks ago from Redmond College. James Blythe, who was graduated in Arts in 1913, had just completed his first year in medicine.”’

‘Faith Meredith has really got to be the handsomest creature I ever saw,’ commented Miss Cornelia above her filet crochet. ‘It’s amazing how those children came on after Rosemary West went to the manse. People have almost forgotten what imps of mischief they were once. Anne, dearie, will you ever forget the way they used to carry on? It’s really surprising how well Rosemary got on with them. She’s more like a chum than a step-mother. They all love her and Una adores her. As for that little Bruce, Una just makes a perfect slave of herself to him. Of course, he is a darling. But did you ever see any child look as much like an aunt as he looks like his Aunt Ellen? He’s just as dark and just as emphatic. I can’t see a feature of Rosemary in him. Norman Douglas always vows at the top of his voice that the stork meant Bruce for him and Ellen and took him to the manse by mistake.’

‘Bruce adores Jem,’ said Mrs Blythe. ‘When he comes over here he follows Jem about like a faithful little dog, looking up at him from under his black brows. He would do anything for Jem, I believe.’

‘Are Jem and Faith going to make a match of it?’

Mrs Blythe smiled. It was well known that Miss Cornelia, who had been such a virulent man-hater at one time, had actually taken to match-making in her declining years.

‘They are only good friends yet, Miss Cornelia.’

‘Very good friends, believe me,’ said Miss Cornelia emphatically. ‘I hear all about the doings of the young fry.’

‘I have no doubt that Mary Vance sees that you do, Mrs Marshall Elliott,’ said Susan significantly, ‘but I think it is a shame to talk about children making matches.’

‘Children! Jem is twenty-one and Faith is nineteen,’ retorted Miss Cornelia. ‘You must not forget, Susan, that we old folks are not the only grown-up people in the world.’

Outraged Susan, who detested any reference to her age – not from vanity but from a haunting dread that people might come to think her too old to work – returned to her ‘Notes.’

‘“Carl Meredith and Shirley Blythe came home last Friday evening from Queen’s Academy. We understand that Carl will be in charge of the school at Harbour Head next year and we are sure he will be a popular and successful teacher.”’

‘He will teach the children all there is to know about bugs anyhow,’ said Miss Cornelia. ‘He is through with Queen’s now and Mr Meredith and Rosemary wanted him to go right on to Redmond in the fall, but Carl has a very independent streak in him and means to earn part of his own way through college. He’ll be all the better for it.’

‘“Walter Blythe, who has been teaching for the past two years at Lowbridge, has resigned,”’ read Susan. ‘“He intends going to Redmond this fall.”’

‘Is Walter quite strong enough for Redmond yet?’ queried Miss Cornelia anxiously.

‘We hope that he will be by the fall,’ said Mrs Blythe. ‘An idle summer in the open air and sunshine will do a great deal for him.’

‘Typhoid is a hard thing to get over,’ said Miss Cornelia emphatically, ‘especially when one has had such a close shave as Walter had. I think he’d do well to stay out of college another year. But then he’s so ambitious. Are Di and Nan going too?’

‘Yes. They both wanted to teach another year but Gilbert thinks they had better go to Redmond this fall.’

‘I’m glad of that. They’ll keep an eye on Walter and see that he doesn’t study too hard. I suppose,’ continued Miss Cornelia, with a side glance at Susan, ‘that after the snub I got a few minutes ago it will not be safe for me to suggest that Jerry Meredith is making sheep’s eyes at Nan.’

Susan ignored this and Mrs Blythe laughed again.

‘Dear Miss Cornelia, I have my hands full, haven’t I? – with all these boys and girls sweethearting around me? If I took it seriously it would quite crush me. But I don’t – it is too hard yet to realize that they’re grown up. When I look at those two tall sons of mine I wonder if they can possibly be the fat, sweet, dimpled babies I kissed and cuddled and sang to slumber the other day – only the other day, Miss Cornelia. Wasn’t Jem the dearest baby in the old House of Dreams? and now he’s a B.A. and accused of courting.’

‘We’re all growing older,’ sighed Miss Cornelia.

‘The only part of me that feels old,’ said Mrs Blythe, ‘is the ankle I broke when Josie Pye dared me to walk the Barry ridge-pole in the Green Gables days. I have an ache in it when the wind is east. I won’t admit that it is rheumatism, but it does ache. As for the children, they and the Merediths are planning a gay summer before they have to go back to studies in the fall. They are such a fun-loving little crowd. They keep this house in a perpetual whirl of merriment.’

‘Is Rilla going to Queen’s when Shirley goes back?’

‘It isn’t decided yet. Her father thinks she is not quite strong enough – she has rather outgrown her strength – she’s really absurdly tall for a girl not yet fifteen. I am not anxious to have her go – why, it would be terrible not to have a single one of my babies home with me next winter. Susan and I would fall to fighting with each other to break the monotony.’

Susan smiled at this pleasantry. The idea of her fighting with ‘Mrs Dr dear!’

‘Does Rilla herself want to go?’ asked Miss Cornelia.

‘No. The truth is, Rilla is the only one of my flock who isn’t ambitious. I really wish she had a little more ambition. She has no serious ideals at all – her sole aspiration seems to be to have a good time.’

‘And why should she not have it, Mrs Dr dear?’ cried Susan, who could not bear to hear a single word against anyone of the Ingleside folk, even from one of themselves. ‘A young girl should have a good time, and that I will maintain. There will be time enough for her to think of Latin and Greek.’

‘I should like to see a little sense of responsibility in her, Susan. And you know yourself that she is abominably vain.’

‘She has something to be vain about,’ retorted Susan. ‘She is the prettiest girl in Glen St Mary. Do you think that all those over-harbour MacAllisters and Crawfords and Elliotts could scare up a skin like Rilla’s in four generations? They could not. No, Mrs Dr dear, I know my place but I cannot allow you to run down Rilla. Listen to this, Mrs Marshall Elliott.’

Susan had found a chance to get square with Miss Cornelia for her digs at the children’s love affairs. She read the item with gusto.

‘“Miller Douglas has decided not to go West. He says old P.E.I, is good enough for him and he will continue to farm for his aunt, Mrs Alec Davis.”’

Susan looked keenly at Miss Cornelia.

‘I have heard, Mrs Marshall Elliott, that Miller is courting Mary Vance.’

This shot pierced Miss Cornelia’s armour. Her sonsy face flushed.

‘I won’t have Miller Douglas hanging round Mary,’ she said crisply. ‘He comes of a low family. His father was a sort of outcast from the Douglases – and his mother was one of those terrible Dillons from Harbour Head.’

‘I think I have heard, Mrs Marshall Elliott, that Mary Vance’s own parents were not what you could call aristocratic.’

‘Mary Vance has had a good bringing up and she is a smart, clever, capable girl,’ retorted Miss Cornelia. ‘She is not going to throw herself away on Miller Douglas, believe me! She knows my opinion on the matter and Mary has never disobeyed me yet.’

‘Well, I do not think you need worry, Mrs Marshall Elliott, for Mrs Alec Davis is as much against it as you could be, and says no nephew of hers is ever going to marry a nameless nobody like Mary Vance.’

Susan returned to her mutton, feeling that she had got the best of it in this passage of arms, and read another Note.

‘“We are pleased to hear that Miss Oliver has been engaged as teacher for another year. Miss Oliver will spend her well-earned vacation at her home in Lowbridge.”’

‘I’m so glad Gertrude is going to stay,’ said Mrs Blythe. ‘We would miss her horribly. And she has an excellent influence over Rilla who worships her. They are chums, in spite of the difference in their ages.’

‘I thought I heard she was going to be married?’

‘I believe it was talked of but I understand it is postponed for a year.’

‘Who is the young man?’

‘Robert Grant. He is a young lawyer in Charlottetown. I hope Gertrude will be happy. She has had a sad life, with much bitterness in it, and she feels things with a terrible keenness. Her first youth is gone and she is practically alone in the world. This new love that has come into her life seems such a wonderful thing to her that I think she hardly dares believe in its permanence. When her marriage had to be put off she was quite in despair – though it certainly wasn’t Mr Grant’s fault. There were complications in the settlement of his father’s estate – his father died last winter – and he could not marry till the tangles were unravelled. But I think Gertrude felt it was a bad omen and that her happiness would somehow elude her yet.’

‘It does not do, Mrs Dr dear, to set your affections too much on a man,’ remarked Susan solemnly.

‘Mr Grant is quite as much in love with Gertrude as she is with him, Susan. It is not he whom she distrusts – it is fate. She has a little mystic streak in her – I suppose some people would call her superstitious. She has an odd belief in dreams and we have not been able to laugh it out of her. I must own, too, that some of her dreams – but there, it would not do to let Gilbert hear me hinting such heresy. What have you found of much interest, Susan?’

Susan had given an exclamation.

‘Listen to this, Mrs Dr dear. “Mrs Sophia Crawford has given up her house at Lowbridge and will make her home in future with her niece, Mrs Albert Crawford.” Why that is my own cousin Sophia, Mrs Dr dear. We quarrelled when we were children over who should get a Sunday-school card with the words “God is Love,” wreathed in rosebuds, on it, and have never spoken to each other since. And now she is coming to live right across the road from us.’

‘You will have to make up the old quarrel, Susan. It will never do to be at outs with your neighbours.’

‘Cousin Sophia began the quarrel, so she can begin the making up also, Mrs Dr dear,’ said Susan loftily. ‘If she does I hope I am a good enough Christian to meet her half-way. She is not a cheerful person and has been a wet blanket all her life. The last time I saw her, her face had a thousand wrinkles – maybe more, maybe less – from worrying and foreboding. She howled dreadful at her first husband’s funeral but she married again in less than a year. The next note, I see, describes the special service in our church last Sunday night and says the decorations were very beautiful.’

‘Speaking of that reminds me that Mr Pryor strongly disapproves of flowers in church,’ said Miss Cornelia. ‘I always said there would be trouble when that man moved here from Lowbridge. He should never have been put in as elder – it was a mistake and we shall live to rue it, believe me! I have heard that he has said that if the girls continue to “mess up the pulpit with weeds” that he will not go to church.’

‘The church got on very well before old Whiskers-on-the-Moon came to the Glen and it is my opinion it will get on without him after he is gone,’ said Susan.

‘Who in the world ever gave him that ridiculous nickname?’ asked Mrs Blythe.

‘Why, the Lowbridge boys have called him that ever since I can remember, Mrs Dr dear – I suppose because his face is so round and red, with that fringe of sandy whisker about it. It does not do for anyone to call him that in his hearing, though, and that you may tie to. But worse than his whiskers, Mrs Dr dear, he is a very unreasonable man and has a great many queer ideas. He is an elder now and they say he is very religious; but I can well remember the time, Mrs Dr dear, twenty years ago, when he was caught pasturing his cow in the Lowbridge graveyard. I always think of it when he is praying in meeting. Well, that is all the notes and there is not much else in the paper of any importance. I never take much interest in foreign parts. Who is this Archduke man who has been murdered?’

‘What does it matter to us?’ asked Miss Cornelia, unaware of the hideous answer to her question which destiny was even then preparing. ‘Somebody is always murdering or being murdered in those Balkan States. It’s their normal condition and I don’t really think that our papers ought to print such shocking things. Well, I must be getting home. No, Anne dearie, it’s no use asking me to stay to supper. Marshall has got to thinking that if I’m not home for a meal it’s not worth eating – just like a man. Merciful goodness, Anne dearie, what is the matter with that cat? Is he having a fit?’ – this, as Doc suddenly bounded to the rug at Miss Cornelia’s feet, laid back his ears, swore at her, and then disappeared with one fierce leap through the window.

‘Oh, no. He’s merely turning into Mr Hyde – which means that we shall have rain or high wind before morning. Doc is as good as a barometer.’

‘Well, I am thankful he has gone on the rampage outside this time and not into my kitchen,’ said Susan. ‘And I am going out to see about supper. With such a crowd as we have at Ingleside now it behoves us to think about our meals betimes.’

Outside, the Ingleside lawn was full of golden pools of sunshine and plots of alluring shadows. Rilla Blythe was swinging in the hammock under the big Scotch pine, Gertrude Oliver sat at its roots beside her, and Walter was stretched at full length on the grass, lost in a romance of chivalry wherein old heroes and beauties of dead and gone centuries lived vividly again for him.

Rilla was the ‘baby’ of the Blythe family and was in a chronic state of secret indignation because nobody believed she was grown up. She was so nearly fifteen that she called herself that, and she was quite as tall as Di and Nan; also, she was nearly as pretty as Susan believed her to be. She had great, dreamy, hazel eyes, a milky skin dappled with little golden freckles, and delicately arched eyebrows, giving her a demure, questioning look which made people, especially lads in their teens, want to answer it. Her hair was ripely, ruddily brown and a little dent in her upper lip looked as if some good fairy had pressed it in with her finger at Rilla’s christening. Rilla, whose best friends could not deny her share of vanity, thought her face would do very well, but worried over her figure, and wished her mother could be prevailed upon to let her wear longer dresses. She, who had been so plump and roly-poly in the old Rainbow Valley days, was incredibly slim now, in the arms-and-legs period. Jem and Shirley harrowed her soul by calling her ‘Spider.’ Yet she somehow escaped awkwardness. There was something in her movements that made you think she never walked but always danced. She had been much petted and was a wee bit spoiled, but still the general opinion was that Rilla Blythe was a very sweet girl, even if she were not so clever as Nan and Di.

Miss Oliver, who was going home that night for vacation, had boarded for a year at Ingleside. The Blythes had taken her to please Rilla who was fathoms deep in love with her teacher and was even willing to share her room, since no other was available. Gertrude Oliver was twenty-eight and life had been a struggle for her. She was a striking-looking girl, with rather sad, almond-shaped brown eyes, a clever, rather mocking mouth, and enormous masses of black hair twisted about her head. She was not pretty but there was a certain charm of interest and mystery in her face. Even her occasional moods of gloom and cynicism had allurement for Rilla. These moods came only when Miss Oliver was tired. At all other times she was a stimulating companion. Walter and Rilla were her favourites and she was the confidante of the secret wishes and aspirations of both. She knew that Rilla longed to be ‘out’ – to go to parties as Nan and Di did, and to have dainty evening dresses and – beaux! In the plural, at that! As for Walter, Miss Oliver knew that he had written a sequence of sonnets ‘to Rosamond’ – i.e. Faith Meredith – and that he aimed at a Professorship of English literature in some big college. She knew his passionate love of beauty and his equally passionate hatred of ugliness; she knew his strength and his weakness.

Walter was, as ever, the handsomest of the Ingleside boys. Glossy black hair, brilliant dark grey eyes, faultless features. And a poet to his fingertips! Miss Oliver was no partial critic and she knew that Walter Blythe had a wonderful gift. That sonnet sequence was really a remarkable thing for a lad of twenty to write.

Rilla loved Walter with all her heart. He never teased her as Jem and Shirley did. He never called her ‘Spider.’ His pet name for her was ‘Rilla-my-Rilla’ – a little pun on her real name, Marilla. She had been named after Aunt Marilla of Green Gables, but Aunt Marilla had died before Rilla was old enough to know her very well, and Rilla detested the name as being horribly old-fashioned and prim. Why couldn’t they have called her by her first name, Bertha, which was beautiful and dignified, instead of that silly ‘Rilla’? She did not mind Walter’s version, but nobody else was allowed to call her that, except Miss Oliver now and then. She would have died for Walter if it would have done him any good, so she told Miss Oliver. Rilla was as fond of italics as most girls of fifteen are – and the bitterest drop in her cup was her suspicion that he told Di more of his secrets than he told her.

‘He thinks I’m not grown up enough to understand,’ she had once lamented rebelliously to Miss Oliver, ‘but I am! And I would never tell them to a single soul – not even to you, Miss Oliver. I tell you all my own – I just couldn’t be happy if I had any secret from you, dearest – but I would never betray his. I tell him everything – I even show him my diary. And it hurts me dreadfully when he doesn’t tell me things. He shows me all his poems, though – they are marvellous, Miss Oliver. Oh, I just live in the hope that some day I shall be to Walter what Wordsworth’s sister Dorothy was to him. Wordsworth never wrote anything like Walter’s poems – nor Tennyson, either.’

‘I wouldn’t say just that. Both of them wrote a great deal of trash,’ said Miss Oliver dryly. Then, repenting, as she saw a hurt look in Rilla’s eye, she added hastily, ‘But I believe Walter will be a great poet, too – some day – and you will have more of his confidence as you grow older.’

‘When Walter was in the hospital with typhoid last year I was almost crazy,’ sighed Rilla, a little importantly. ‘They never told me how ill he really was until it was all over – Father wouldn’t let them. I’m glad I didn’t know – I couldn’t have borne it. I cried myself to sleep every night as it was. But sometimes,’ concluded Rilla bitterly – she liked to speak bitterly now and then in imitation of Miss Oliver – ‘sometimes I think Walter cares more for Dog Monday than he does for me.’

Dog Monday was the Ingleside dog, so called because he had come into the family on a Monday when Walter had been reading Robinson Crusoe. He really belonged to Jem but was much attached to Walter also. He was lying beside Walter now with nose snuggled against his arm, thumping his tail rapturously whenever Walter gave him a pat. Monday was not a collie or a setter or a hound or a Newfoundland. He was just, as Jem said, ‘plain dog’ – very plain dog, uncharitable people added. Certainly, Monday’s looks were not his strong point. Black spots were scattered at random over his yellow carcass, on. . .