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 digest her affront, and did not reappear in Susan's kitchen for many weeks. Perhaps it was just as well, for they were hard weeks, when the Germans continued to strike, now here, now there, and seemingly vital points fell to them at every blow. And one day in early May, when wind and sunshine frolicked in Rainbow Valley and the maple grove was golden-green and the harbour all blue and dimpled and white-capped, the news came about Jem.

There had been a trench raid on the Canadian front—a little trench raid so insignificant that it was never even mentioned in the dispatches and when it was over Lieutenant James Blythe was reported “wounded and missing.”

“I think this is even worse than news of his death would have been,” moaned Rilla through her white lips, that night.

“No—no—‘missing’ leaves a little hope, Rilla,” urged Gertrude Oliver.

“Yes—torturing, agonized hope that keeps you from ever becoming quite resigned to the worst,” said Rilla. “Oh, Miss Oliver—must we go for weeks and months,—not knowing whether Jem is alive or dead? Perhaps we will never know. I—I cannot bear it—I cannot. Walter—and now Jem. This will kill mother,—look at her face, Miss Oliver, and you will see that. And Faith—poor Faith—how can she bear it?”

Gertrude shivered with pain. She looked up at the pictures hanging over Rilla’s desk and felt a sudden hatred of Mona Lisa’s endless smile.

“Will not even this blot it off your face?” she thought savagely.