Well, it's only been what - two months since the last chapter? Every time, I promise you that the wait won't be as long. So, in the interest of not giving false hope, I make no such promises this time. You may rest assured that this story has not been abandoned...simply misplaced a bit in the shuffle of jobs, university, and a mad scramble to finish things before I move halfway across the country. However, I swear Scarlett-O'Hara-style, that I will finish this story. It just might, you know, take two years.


24 May, 1915

To say that Una had slept fitfully would have been an understatement. She had lain in bed, listening to the hours bong out on the grandfather clock in the downstairs hall, slowly counting down until the moment she would have to step onto the stage in the Glen hall and play that giant piano. In front of everyone. The very thought made her heart stop, sending a shot of liquid adrenaline into her stomach, where it pooled, joining the nerves already there. No, Una was not sleeping well. She dropped off sometime between two and three, waking up again when the sun was higher in the sky than she was accustomed to.

Wonderful. She'd overslept.

Rushing through her toilette, she opened her Bible to the day's verse. Lovely - Paul's trial before Felix. As was her custom, Una tried to find a way to work the day's reading into her life, but here she had to admit that she was lost. Trials...could tonight's concert be considered a trial?

She conceded that it probably did not.

The question rolled around in her head in the hours after breakfast, until she was up to her elbows in soap bubbles, washing the dishes, when Father came in.

"I don't suppose we have any more of last night's pie, Una?"

His almost comical look of hope made her laugh. "Not with Carl and Bruce in the house." Wiping a hand on the nearby dish towel, she pointed to the perpetually stocked cookie jar. "We do have oatmeal cookies, should that be an acceptable substitute."

"It is, thank you," Father swiped three out of the jar, and Una couldn't help thinking that no matter the age, boys would never change. As Father turned to go, Una stopped him with a question.

"Father, what can you tell me about the twenty-fourth chapter of Acts?"

Father leaned against the doorframe, thoughtfully chewing on a cookie. "Acts twenty-four...that would be Paul's trial before Felix, wouldn't it?" At her nod, he continued. "Well, most books of the Bible fall into either ecclesiastical or historical teachings, or a healthy mixture of the two." He paused, adding, "Well, except the Song of Songs. But that's neither here nor there," his mouth quirked up. "But before I continue, do you want the short story, or the full sermon?"

"Is it even possible to have a short story when it comes to the Bible?"

"The Catholics would say no," Father settled back into his chair, steepling his fingers. "But even I would say that trying to summarize the Bible would lead to some tricky consequences. At the same time, if I were to try to draw out every facet of the book of Acts, we might outlast this war we're in."

"The medium-length story, then." Una wiped her hands on a dishtowel, joining her father at the table.

"Well, all right. In the interest of time, I would say that we look at one facet of Acts. Namely, providence. Because Acts is a more historical narrative, we don't see as many miracles in it. This, I think, makes it more relatable to us modern humans - after all, when was the last time you saw someone part the sea, or turn water into wine?

"Now, we see God mostly through providence. He's still there, working away in the background. And it's the same way with Acts. He's the backbone of the entirety of the chapter, the same way he still is nowadays. That, I think, is the most immediate thing to take away from -"

The bell sounded, interrupting him. With a quick glance at the kitchen clock, he sighed and stood. "Eleven o'clock already. That will be Mrs. Oakley calling. Sorry to cut this short, Una, but I hope I've given you some food for thought."

And he had, Una thought as she stood up from the kitchen table. He had.


Before the last notes of Elgar's Chantant rang out, Una closed the lid over the ivory keys with a bang. Three mistakes - unacceptable, six hours before a recital. Every time she imagined herself in front of all of Glen St. Mary, her heart would skip a beat and her fingers would begin to tremble. Three mistakes. Three mistakes. One in measure twenty-two, another in measure thirty five, and the third in measure fifty. Absolutely unacceptable. There was only one solution, of course: practice again, and again, until there were no more mistakes. If she made mistakes, she would be the laughingstock of Four Winds. She did not stop to ask herself how the good inhabitants of Four Winds, not having the sheet music in front of them, would know when she had made a mistake, logic having taken flight long ago - possibly when she had agreed to play in this concert.

She carefully sat back down on the bench, lifting the lid she had slammed down only minutes ago. Taking a deep breath, and imagining that she was playing the large black behemoth on the Glen Hall stage, she started over.


Well, it was done. Walter let himself down on the seat with sigh, watching the clouds of steam roll past as the train slowly made its way out of the Charlottetown station. He looked down at his legs, still clad in the same trousers he had left home in - the recruiters had been out of khaki. Returning in uniform would have given it some finality, but now, he would have a few days to get used to the idea of being a soldier. Leaning back, closed his eyes, ready to let the ride back to Glen St. Mary drift by with a nap.

"Walter! Walter Blythe!"

The shrill voice rang out the length of the car, and Walter gave an imperceptible sigh. He knew that voice, and he had a feeling that all hope of a nap had just disappeared. Opening his eyes, he found himself looking into the pale blue ones of Irene Howard.

"Walter Blythe," she feigned surprise, "what might you be doing on this train? If I'd known we would be travelling together, I would have reserved a seat in the same car."

"The loss is mine, I'm sure," he stood, sitting back down when she motioned for him to. "What brought you to Charlottetown?"

Irene shrugged prettily. "Oh, I had to pick up a new dress for the concert tonight. Rilla asked me to sing at the last moment, and I just hadn't a thing to wear."

"The concert," he said, realization dawning on him. "I'd forgotten - strange as it might be. Rilla's talked of nothing else for a week. I supposed I've been rather preoccupied."

"Well, you're allowed to feel a bit forgetful if you were in Charlottetown to enlist - you did enlist, didn't you?"

He nodded, causing her to exclaim, "I'm so proud of you! You know, no matter what everyone else told me, I always said, "Walter has as much pluck as anybody."*

Any further words were torn away when the train rolled over a bump, causing Irene to hang on to the backrest of the bench. "Oh, goodness me! I suppose I ought to find my seat before I end up flat in the aisle." She turned away with a saucy grin, looking back one more time. "I'll see you at the concert, Walter."

How, Walter wondered, would he be able to face down some Germans, if he could barely make it one round with Irene Howard?


The applause was deafening, even from backstage. Una sat on a little chair in the dressing room, staring blankly at her music as Rick MacAllister left the stage after his reading. Somewhere, she registered Irene Howard, lovely in her new white dress, stepping into the golden glow of the stage lights to play for the chorus - Alice Clow had a headache.

The chorus flew by, and soon it was Miss Oliver's turn to take her place behind the piano while Irene took center stage to sing an aria that Una would have recognized, and probably requested the music for, had she been paying an ounce of attention. Then came the little girls' Fairy Drill, and another reading, and another chorus piece.

Then it was Rilla's turn, and she took the stage pale and quiet, her skin only a shade apart from her dress. Una stood in in the wings, waiting for her to begin, and realized that her friend was shaking even more than she was. Rilla usually wasn't afraid of performing - loved it, in fact. But tonight, she stood onstage, looking younger than her almost sixteen years.

But she took a deep breath, gave her reading, and left the stage after a little bow to the audience. If Rilla could give a reading - facing the audience head-on - with shaking hands, then Una could certainly play some Elgar with her back to them.

The applause nearly sent her scurrying back into the wings. Una tried to glide onstage the way Irene did, hoping she could project some sort of confidence she did not feel. After bowing, she settled down on the bench, a strange hum in her ears and a buzzing in her chest. Her hands were strangely still, clasped in the pale blue chiffon of her lap. With a deep breath, she lifted them to the keys, hesitated for a moment, letting them hover while she imagined herself back at home, practicing on the old piano.

And then she played.

Nothing magical happened. The world did not melt away, not did it somehow shake the foundations of the hall. But as she played, Rilla felt enveloped by a sort of calm - what was it that father had said that morning? God was always in the background? That's what it felt like, she decided. God was in the background, and if she made a mistake, it would bother her, yes, but it wouldn't count in the grand scheme of things. It wouldn't change the course of the war, and they would still raise the money for the Belgian orphans.

And then it was over. The applause crashed over her like a wave, nearly knocking her over and shattering the calm she had felt while she played. Una felt herself go pink, almost forgetting to bow before stepping offstage. In the dressing room, she leaned against the wall, catching her breath as she watched the bright moon shining through the windows, leaving milky puddles on the floor. She had done it. She had played in front of Glen St. Mary, and she had survived the ordeal. And, she decided as her shaking knees slowly gave way and she slid down the wall towards the floor, she was probably never going to do it again.


The concert was over. Walter streamed towards the open doors along with everyone else, exiting into the cool spring night. Somewhere, he heard someone say that over one hundred dollars had been raised that evening. Rilla was bound to be pleased with that.

He turned around just as the performers left the building, and saw Una, pale in her light blue gown, but her dark blue eyes shining with relief and something else, something akin to triuph. He moved towards her, offering his hand.

"Congratulations, Una. That was a lovely performance."

Her cheeks went the pink of a tea rose. "Thank you. And I only made one mistake."

"Did you? I didn't notice," he smiled. "And I assure you no one else did."

"It was, however, the most nerve-wracking five minutes of my life," she confessed. "I highly doubt that I will be playing in public anytime in the foreseeable future."

Una looked up at him, taking in the face with its heightened color and the sparkle in the grey eyes. He was still Walter, but he had changed in the last day.

"You've joined up, haven't you?"

He nodded, and her heart dropped. She had known he would, of course, but there had been a little part of her that hoped he would be spared. "Well. I suppose I ought to give my congratulations."

"You wouldn't mean it, though."

"No, I wouldn't. I would try to, though. Have you told anyone?"

He nodded. "Dad drove me to the station, and Mother already knew. I'll tell everyone else tomorrow."

"Have you told Rilla?"

He shook his head.

Una's eyes took him in, before taking a step back and adjusting her shawl. "Well, when you see her, tell her she did a wonderful job with the concert. Good-night, Walter."

"Good-night."

With that, she turned away to rejoin the Merediths. Walter turned back toward the hall door, only to see Rilla coming towards him, as though in a trance, her face paler than the wax crabapple blossoms in her hair.


They were walking towards home, arm in arm, down the moonlit road. The frogs were singing in the marshes, the dim, ensilvered fields of home lay all around them.*

"You know?" said Walter.

"Yes. Irene told me," answered Rilla chokingly.*

Dratted Irene, thought Walter. "We didn't want you to know till the evening was over," he said gently. "But I knew when you came out for the drill that you had heard." He shook his head, trying to find a way to explain himself to Rilla. "Little sister, I had to do it. I couldn't live any longer on such terms with myself as I have been since the Lusitania was sunk. When I pictured those dead women and children floating about in that pitiless, ice-cold water—well, at first I just felt a sort of nausea with life. I wanted to get out of the world where such a thing could happen—shake its accursed dust from my feet for ever. Then I knew I had to go."

"There are—plenty—without you," she choked out, looking at him with imploring hazel eyes.

"That isn't the point, Rilla-my-Rilla. I'm going for my own sake—to save my soul alive. It will shrink to something small and mean and lifeless if I don't go. That would be worse than blindness or mutilation or any of the things I've feared."

"You may—be—killed," Rilla said, bringing up a line of poetry he had read at college.

"'Comes he slow or comes he fast

It is but death who comes at last.'"

quoted Walter. "It's not death I fear—I told you that long ago. One can pay too high a price for mere life, little sister. There's so much hideousness in this war—I've got to go and help wipe it out of the world. I'm going to fight for the beauty of life, Rilla-my-Rilla—that is my duty. There may be a higher duty, perhaps—but that is mine. I owe life and Canada that, and I've got to pay it. Rilla, tonight for the first time since Jem left I've got back my self-respect. I could write poetry," Walter laughed. "I've never been able to write a line since last August. Tonight I'm full of it. Little sister, be brave—you were so plucky when Jem went."

"This—is—different," Rilla seemed to be losing a battle against wild sobs. "I loved—Jem—of course—but—when—he went—away—we thought—the war—would soon—be over—and you are—everything to me, Walter."

He shook his head. "You must be brave to help me, Rilla-my-Rilla. I'm exalted tonight—drunk with the excitement of victory over myself—but there will be other times when it won't be like this—I'll need your help then."

"When—do—you—go?"

"Not for a week—then we go to Kingsport for training. I suppose we'll go overseas about the middle of July—we don't know." They hadn't told him much beyond that at the recruitment office.

One week—only one week more,*" she whispered mournfully.

Those were the last words spoken between them until they arrived home. They stopped in the pines that surrounded the house, and Walter turned to Rilla. "Rilla-my-Rilla, there were girls as sweet and pure as you in Belgium and Flanders. You—even you—know what their fate was. We must make it impossible for such things to happen again while the world lasts. You'll help me, won't you?"

"I'll try, Walter," she said. "Oh, I will try."* Then she lost the battle against the sobs and buried her face in his shoulder. He held on to her until the sobs subsided, then led her into the house, where Mother was waiting for them. Walter left Rilla with Mother and slowly climbed the stairs to the room he had shared with Jem before it all. The white curtains fluttered lightly, framing the window lit by the almost-full moon. He didn't light a lamp, deciding that the moon was enough. He looked around, as though seeing the room for the first time. There were so many memories here: the time Jem had decided to see if he could fly by jumping off the dresser; the time Walter had raised a trio of kittens in the closet. The memory caused a lopsided grin to surface. No, Susan had not been pleased.

If he looked out the window and craned his neck a little, he could see the apple tree he had planted when he was small, in the Rainbow Valley days.

He considered going to bed, but decided he was too giddy to sleep. Sitting down at his desk, he pulled out a pen, inkwell, and paper, and by the bright light of the moon, began to write.


*Rilla of Ingleside

This chapter's title is taken from the song "Send Me Away With a Smile" (Lyrics by Al Piantadosi, music by Louis Weslyn, 1917). It's a delightful song (as delightful as a war song can be), and I will thank kslchen (my intrepid Beta-reader) for steering me in its direction. I'm the epitome of a music nerd (hello, fellow music majors!) and this story has been a fun deep-dive into music history. I would have done it anyways... but it's always good to have an excuse called "research."

As you can probably tell, this chapter is pretty canon-heavy. Because this is a "companion", if you will, to RoI, there is the occasional chapter that intersects heavily with the book. It is also a tad-religion heavy in retrospect - and because I didn't set out to write Christian fiction, I wasn't expecting that. But we're spending time with the Merediths… what was I expecting?

Yours,

Anne