Against, bright blue sky, black telephone wires seemed almost to vibrate, and a few crows cawed in the tops of the golden birches. The village of Glen St. Mary was abuzz as word slowly spread from house to house. Many a Lowbridge boy had fallen on the fields of Flers Courcelette, and now it was rumored that some of the Glen boys had also fallen, but who? Elliot had been seen shaking her head, and Mary Vance had squeezed her work-hardened hand consolingly. Gilbert Blythe went about his doctoral work, his face pale and tired, his eyes no longer twinkling. For it was rumored that Ingelside had been beset by the shadow of the reaper. There had been not a whisper or sight of Anne Blythe, only Susan Baker and Rilla Blythe, in errands around town, both of them pale and resolute.

Gilbert glanced worriedly at his youngest child. Rilla's fine apple-blossom-like skin looked almost lifeless, and her thick, slightly curling red-brown hair was tied carelessly at the nape of her neck, a few curls curled around her neck. Rilla's large, hazel eyes with gold flecks were wide with unspeakable suffering, and red-rimmed, as if she shed at night the tears she held back during the day. Mechanically, Rilla tried to smile at Jims, but her smile had changed, it didn't make her eyes shine, as only a week before.

Susan showed full and completely untouched tray to Gilbert. Gilbert rubbed his tired face and said faintly, "Just like when." Susan nodded. Gilbert sighed, lightly, a small, despairing sound, that was swiftly muffled into his sleeve. Since arrival of that telegram, Anne had been almost completely catatonic.

After waking up out of her unconsciousness, which news of that telegram, had caused, she had demanded in forzen, utterly toneless icy voice, to be carried to Walter's room. There she lay with a bloodless cheek, on Walter's bed, in her dreamy cotton nightgown with lace trim, and her geenish silk dressing-gown, her hair in a thick messy plait, clutching his old notebooks in her hands, all Walter's favorite books of olden, golden years, in a jumbled pile around her; green-gold Shelley, burgundy Tennyson, blue Keats, Fairy-books, and Arthurian romances. Gertrude Oliver, read in shredded voice, one of the Brontë sisters' Gondal poems, to Anne, unless Gilbert was completely misremembering.

He come with Western winds, with evening's wandering airs,

With that clear dusk of Heaven that brings the thickest stars:

Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire.

Looking up from the handwritten thin black-covered notebook, Gertrude nodded to Gilbert as she quietly crept away.

Gilbert looked at Anne for a long time. A few freckles were clearly visible on her skin, and Anne rested like a statue, not reacting at all to Gertrude's departure. Gilbert mustered up his courage and said, in a half-whisper "Anne-girl. Don't shut me out." No response from the motionless figure. Hazel eyes narrowing, Gilbert quickly opened envelope in his pocket. It was decorated with many smudged stamps and runny varnish, and he began to read aloud

15.9.1916.

Dear mother, darlingest of all Annes.

At dawn I go "over the top."

Only my candle flame reflects shadows in the corner, and my pen scrapes against paper, sound coming from it reminds me of autumn leaves falling in Ingelside's garden, and bright clean blue sky, and your smile and the sparkle of your eyes as you read to me for first time Hardy´s clear autum-visions, and of Tennyson´s frevent idylls, Shelley ´s bucolic nature pictures, as frolicking wind blew, and Nan and Di´s laughter glimmered like fae-bells, and I decided then to hung those bells in Rainbow Valley, that was not Rainbow Valley then.

Rainbow has always been one of the greatest manifestations of nature and beauty to me, and that's why rainbows, and chasing them, and the spaces in between are important to me, as you know. Poetry is my medium, because as I said years ago "in verse you can write everything that is not true in prose, there is more room for imagination" and you have always encouraged me, to find my own voice and for that I thank you. It seems now, that I have written myself into the pages of history, even if only as a war poet, but then only time will tell.

I´m now glad that I have seen a bit of world. England really is that "old green and pleasant land," and Paris, its boulevards, parks, and that happiness that I experienced, while seeing wonders of Louvre. I will never forget Paris dawns, dance of colors, and the scent of fresh baguettes, but if I had not, I would be joyously happy, still as that happiness and pure love of our family, especially yours, Mumsy, has given me lasting protection, against the onslaught of things that are here, normal as picking apples are there. There are no words to describe this. You know newspaper headlines and reports. I am content to be here, doing my part, to secure the world for future generations, my sisters' and brothers children. To protect their future Rainbow Valleys, their own Edens.

I do belive that love and memories can never truly die, not as long as there are people who remember, and generations who write and laugh, tinkling silvery-gold, like Rilla´s bubbling, joyous laugh, like the harps of mythical Elysium, like ever gently soothing wind blowing in Rainbow Valley, as every year there are fresh and satiny smooth apple blossoms, and violets blooming, and Mayflowers gently whispering.

With all my love, your son,

W.C.B.

Gilbert, swallowed roughly, for tears almost choked his voice, and then he noticed that slender hand was gently touching his knee. And slowly, with the utmost care, Gilbert embraced Anne.

A light breeze played with the rampant wild vines that shaded the large leaded glass windows of the Presbyterian Manse.

Bruce Meredith was running freely in the yard amid crackling leaves. Window was open and there came soft, tender, dreamy note of flowing glisterning music. Then it was twined into shrill, demanding ringing of the phone, Manse's ring. Bruce listened, few moments, music had stopped, but then senerely he contiued his play.

It was a bluish afternoon.

Out of breath and red-cheeked from his outdoor antics, Bruce looked for Una, but she was not in the kitchen. Everywhere there was the scent of fresh tea and apple jam, as Una and Bruce had cooked a large batch earlier in the day, in consequencce most of kitchen shelves were full of neat jars, but Una was not in the basement, not in the living room, which was in disarray.

The piano chair had fallen over, and the sheet music was scattered on the floor. The music, the notes spoke to him, they whispered, their secret language that only a few boys understood. Bruce thought of the years when he had been very small and music had echoed in this very room, creating a sense of security, as Mother had played, and then bit later two black haired heads had played, these same songs. Una had looked like all Chistmases had come all at once, and Ingelside's Walter, who had smiled his dreamy way, at Bruce, and had taken cherry jam with his tea, but only sometimes, and they had talked about, about weird grown-up things like fingering, scales, and octaves. Sometimes Walter had recited poems, full of valour and faires, and Una's face had lightened lightly. Mother Rosemary had ushered Bruce resolutely out of the drawing-room, saying in her gentle way, "don't disturb them." Striped cat jumped next to Bruce, purring soothingly. And slowly Bruce raised piano chair to the correct position, and carefully gathered the notes and placed them on the chair, for he was too small to put them in their proper place on the shelves, where all Mother´s and Una´s notes lived in their folders.

Little hesitantly, Bruce climbed, heavy, winding, worn stairs to the upper floor where Una's room was located. The door to the familiar room was usually closed, but now it was open, and Bruce noticed Una resting on her bed. She had always been pale, but now, her face was completely colorless, its tone reminiscent of ivory. To his surprise Bruce found Mother sitting gravely by Una´s bed, a rosary, it was color of burnt sugar between her fingers, glittering.

Bruce's voice scattered Rosemary´s thoughts. "Mom, why is Una-moon sleeping in her own room in the middle of the afternoon. She promised to play Schubert´s Erlköning for me today."

Rosemary glanced at Bruce, whose brows were furrowed with concern, he looked so much like Ellen. She breathed in, and said gently, "My dear, just concentrate on your playing, with your cat rest of this day. You've made such great progress that I suggest you take a break from piano for a while."

Glowing with pride and satisfaction, Bruce scrambled away. He was feeling thoughtful, for Mother had not answered his question about Una, but perhaps she was a little unwell, for girls sometimes did that, even if he shouldn't know such things.

Humming whisperingly haunting melody of Erlköning, Bruce stopped in his Father's study. There were books, everywhere, and a beautiful crucifix on the wall, but also a little dust. Bruce sneezed lightly.

John Meredith looked up from his book, and he smiled, somehow especially warmly, a little wistfully at Bruce. John Meredith said "Was that the Fairy King? There are many different variations of that fairy tale, and when you're a little older you can read them all, but only if you want to. It's strange that fairy tales and songs and prayers have a humanity embedded in them all pain, grace, hope, love, and also resurrection."

Bruce frowned, and he inquired "Can you get a sermon done on this topic. It's almost Sunday, can you at least try?"

John Meredith, looked at Bruce, and for a moment before him stood not his beloved son, but Walter of Ingelside, and he remembered Walter's words "I will gladly do my duty for beauty and my ideals as well as the gold nuggets of fairy tales and rainbows." Walter, was now lost forever, as he lay lifeless, struck down somewhere on the battlefield of Flers Courcelette. John closed his eyes and with a trembling voice he answered Bruce "My dear boy, I will try my best."

Golden, slightly misty sun shone through the windows, and Bruce's cat slept in the armchair in a colorful ball. Familiar, slightly fumbling notes, echoed, and paused, it was Bruce. Una felt as if she were floating, rootless and detached even breathing was difficult. Una had heard that in Ingleside Anne Blythe lay sick, some said nearly raving, from grief and loss.

Rosemary began to play Schumann, and music flowed, like pure sunlight, like buried dreams. Under Rosemary's ephemeral touch music itself seemed to mourn as Nun hast du mir den ersten Schmerz getan, shimmered. Una shivered, and quickly she disguised gesture by adjusting the modest collar of her house dress. Schumann's music was entwined in Una's soul, like a shimmering net, and Una had never felt any music so painfully, so painfully. It felt like every note Rosemary played was ripping pieces out of her soul.

So quickly, Una embraced Rosemary and went out, as she needed to get some air, and automatically she headed towards Rainbow Valley. A cutting, heart-rending pain shot into her heart as Una slowly realized that she would never, ever again hear Walter's sonorous, melodious voice, or get any letters from him.

Una wasn't really surprised at all when a pale and determined looking Rilla found her there. Rilla glanced at Una with a searching look, in a way that somewhat resembled Walter's gaze, but not quite, and quietly Rilla said "A couple of days ago I received a letter, from the front. It is Walter's last letter, I believe, but there is no certainty. It was written for both of us, in part. I would have brought this letter to Manse in a couple of days, if I had not met you, here dear Una."

Rilla held out the sheets of paper, and Una took them, with slightly trembling hands. The handwriting of Walter, it was familiar, and so dear. His words, they shone full of idealism, and a touch of fatalism. And then Una heard Rilla ask "Una would you like to keep this letter?"

Una, took a deep breath, and answered, slowly, unconsciously, "Yes, if you feel you can give it?"

"Well, then it's yours," Rilla said gravely, and sincerely.

And Una murmured her thanks, sincerely, shyly, and heartbreakingly, and her voice trembled, though she tried hard to keep it steady and calm. Afterwards, as that letter had exhanged, hands Una followed Rilla's graceful white-clad figure with her eyes, and soon Rilla had disappeared behind the spruce trees.

Alone, once more in Rainbow Valley, Una pressed a light kiss to Walter's signature and she knew that she had no right to grieve, not in the eyes of the world, that luxury was reserved for Ingelsideans.

And slowly Una uttered "Walter, I will keep faith." The wind blew fiery red maple leaves around Una, and the bells hung by Walter jingled lightly.

In Kingsport, Redmond, semester was in full swing. The black telegram wires brought news of blood-stained lists, of battles, and defeats, and costly victories. Postman, was wearily carrying his heavy sack. He slipped two letters bearing military stamps into the mailbox of a pretty little house, which read in italics Primrose Hollow. And after taking a few steps, postman perked up his ears, for there had been a high, piercing cry from within the house, and a soft, sonorous, caramel-sounding voice, with a trace of tears, said through the open window, "Faith, fetch Nan quickly."