A wave of heat caressed Prince Edward Island, sea breeze barely cooled the air. Almost all the windows of the Glen and Lowbridge houses had light curtains. Water of the Four Winds harbor was a deep clear blue as the sun reflected it in glittering rays that flashed bright gold. At Ingelside, Susan Baker, whisked Jekyll out of the kitchen, and as she carried elaborate tea-tray to the veranda, where Rosemary Meredith and Cornelia Elliot sat, and beside them, like a gray crow, Susan's cousin Sophia. Anne Blythe, raised her greenish eyes, and remarked in her jovial way, "Ah, Susan, tea, simply slpendid, I was just telling Rosemary about Nan's latest letter, and Di´s marvelous news. "

Cousin Sophia snorted quietly, and said in a low voice, in a plaintive way, " There are immoral short stories and books too much the world anyway, but the photo has good likeness of her, I can admit to that, although I've never liked red hair on girls, because that color is kind of ungodly, and they get lung disease more often than others, but of course it doesn't apply to you dear Anne, or Di, because she has a solid constitution. I think it's completely pointless for girls to pursue academic degrees. What will they do with that degree, when both of them get married, if God allows it to them. Eastern Front is breaking, into tiny pieces. Romanian front block was fought at the beginning of this month, fiercely. Do you remember what I told you last week Susan, I said that Kerensky Offensive was going to fail, and now it seems I was right, just look at the headlines in the Daily Enterprise, Tarnopol has been lost, and also, apparently, Stanislau." Sophia was clinking her knitting needles triumphantly, and added in a grim voice. "I predict a dark summer, who knows where our boys will end up?"

Susan glanced grimly at her cousin, noting the effect her words had on Mrs. Doctor Dear, who drank her tea with pale, slightly trembling lips. So, Susan said in her inimitable way, "You've had three husbands but no children, so you're the last person in the world to talk about the sacrifices of our soldiers, as 'our boys' and besides, I trust the Allies and British High Command to the last, General Haigh knows what he's doing!"

Cornelia Elliot, carefully placed Marilla Cuthbert's rosebud on the cup table, and said conciliatoryly but pointedly, " By the way, I heard a peculiar rumor the other day. It seems that Dr. Parker and his wife have gone on a journey somewhere, apparently to the western provinces, I think it is health related, for as I understand it, Therese Parker has never been very sturdy. Dick Parker would give her the moon, as some men tend to think, but of course not Marshall, he's too sensible for that. Rosemary, how was Glen's choir practice last time?"

Rosemary, put down her teacup, and said in her quiet way, "We were rehearsing Elgar, except that Irene Howard wasn't singing, and that in itself was special, because she's always kept tight to her solos, and her own visibility. So I had to give Irene's solo to Minnie Clow, and she was quite good, as she did rise to the occasion, in the most slpendid way." Anne Blythe, glanced at Rosemary inquisitively, said, "Rilla said that Betty Meade had told her that apparently Irene has the summer flu, for she has not been at Upper Glen at all for the last few days, and last week Mrs. Howard came to see Gilbert."

Cornelia Elliot snorted disapprovingly, and pointedly remarked, "Caroline Howard has always imagined that the world should revolve around her, and if it doesn't she arranges things to do so. So it's no wonder that both of the Howard children are like that, shallow and materialistic, there is no salt in them." Susan found herself nodding emphatically, at Cornelia's words, and then there was a clatter from the staircase as Rilla flitted lightly into the living room in her pale dress, her reddish hair tied with blue ribbons, a diary and a half-finished stocking in her hand.

Anne said in her silvery voice, "Rilla, where are you going?" Rilla turned, and a little blush rose on her high cheeks, and she said, "I'm just going for a walk, I'll be back soon, Jims is taking his afternoon nap." And from the shady verandah, four ladies watched Rilla's slim, fresh, figure turn, on to the road leading to the Upper Glen, and Susan remarked, "Perhaps our darling may go to the post-office, for she has been writing several letters late at night."

Rosemary's and Anne's eyes met, and they both thought of their children who were at the front. Gracefully, Rosemary slipped to Ingelside's piano, and soon, the softly gliding Mozart's Dove Sono shone, rendered by Rosemary's silvery church soprano, which years ago had attracted some attention, and then Mozart changed to Elgar's melancholy, Through the Long Days.

Listening to Rosemary's skillful interpretation, Anne Blythe felt her heart beat fast, and the blood roared in her ears, just like when she and Gilbert.. To get something else to think about, Anne took out a folded piece of paper from her pocket. It read in a curvy font; "Sherwood Publishing is proud to present a new literary talent. Miss Diana Blythe's debut work 'Into Bluebell Wood' is fascinating and touching prose, in its cyclical nature. Advance copies are available from September." And in the photo, Di posed, very elegant, in a dove gray outfit, that color brought her creamy skin to justice, and in the bosom of her dress was a dainty amethyst brooch, it was the same style of jewelry as Marilla's brooch, which was also in Anne's jewelry box at the moment, and Anne wondered where Di had got it.


At Howard House, in Upper Glen, Mrs. Howard, glanced worriedly at Irene, who was sitting at table, stirring her now cooled cup of regulated tea, Clive had already gone to his VTC duties, but he wasn't as cheerful as usual. Mrs. Howard, glanced myopicly at hazy-looking black newspaper headlines, and with her other hand, she rubbed her temples, for a damp low pressure breathed over the Upper Glen, and the air was like heavy syrup. Mrs. Howard remarked, in her fussy, overbearing way. "My dear, would you run along to the Post Office, as I can feel my head start to turn, I'm going to have a lie down soon."

Irene nodded, as her mother bustled out, in rustle of well-worn linen. Only last week Mrs. Howard had been to Dr. Blythe, and at that time she had received a new prescription, a powder. And upon arriving at her home voluble Mrs. Howard had sunk into an armchair, from which Clive, with Irene's help, had moved her upstairs. Afterwards Irene had cooked seemingly endless chamomile wraps for Mother.

Toast grew cold on her plate. Strawberry jam looked too much like blood, a thick, slimy layer on top of the bread. A bit later, in the dimness of her own room, Irene reluctantly glanced at the oval mirror on her dressing table. The mental pressure of the last few days showed on her features as a general pallor, so she carefully took a carefully measured powder, from a small silver box, and applied it to her face. Through the half-open window Irene heard stern ringing of the bells of the Presbyterian Church. And Irene selected her best straw hat and went to do her errands.

Walking through Upper Glen, Irene noticed to her surprise that everything seemed to be the same as a couple of days ago, Carter Flagg's store was still lined with Glen residents discussing the latest deals, and children playing, and as she turned the corner towards the Glen Post Office, Irene's steps slowed, for it was suddenly way too much. Her world and her future had been shattered into pieces, by an enemy bullet, and that information had come in an official letter with a watermarked paper. She had to carry on as if nothing had happened, it was too unfair. Irene found herself breathing shallowly, and with difficulty she relaxed her diaphragm.

At the post office, Irene met Rilla Blythe, the younger girl, looked at Irene steadily, in her cold pale way, and as Rilla passed Irene, she heard Rilla hum a familiar, touching tune in a low voice, which struck Irene straight to the heart, for never again would Irene hear Roses of Picardy, without recalling that delightful evening that had held so much promise. Irene's thoughts circled, and she stood as if rooted to the doorway, unable to take a single step.

George, Glen's post clerk, glanced curiously at Irene Howard, and said, "Miss Howard, this heat is awful, are you unwell? Would you like some water?" The blonde girl, smiled a little mechanically, and she said in her sonorous voice, "Thank you, no. Here's a letter, it goes by express to Nova Scotia." George, glanced at the envelope, and he said, laughing and winking, "All right, so it would seem. There doesn't seem to be anything here for Howards this time. You've been getting mail from the front quite often. Well, your soldier will probably write to you again soon, I would If I were in his boots, as such a pretty girl like you, is waiting for him."

Irene felt her social smile congeal on her face, like a mask, and without a word she swept out of the post office into the sweltering afternoon. The children's laughter rang out, and at that moment Irene felt she loathed every inhabitant of the Glen with fervent passion, as they had not their lives totally disorered into tiny and jagged fragments.

A couple of hours later, in the evening hours, a sunburned and frizzy-headed Clive knocked on Irene's door, and a listless voice answered, "Go away, whoever you are." Resolutely, Clive opened the door of Irene's room, and cast a serious glance at his little sister, who was staring blankly out the window. Clive gently touched Irene's shoulder, and his sister turned, fiercely away from that caress, as Clive said very gently, "Have you received a telegram with black borders, by any chance? If that has happened, I am extremely sorry."

Irene looked up at her brother, and two pairs of dark blue eyes met, and the silence hummed. Then Irene said bitterly, in a low voice that actually cracked "You should be out there, in those bloody, and jagged trenches, instead you're here, as your heart can take it. You are spouting pointless platitudes, try harder, do something if you even know how." Clive shuddered, as if Irene's words had been a blow from the palm of her hand, and in a way they had been, but ten times more painful, for those words cut to the soul, slicing. Clive, lightly stroked Irene's hair, and closed the door behind him.

Arriving in the living room, Clive met Caroline Howard's watery gaze, and Clive replied curtly, in his charming way, "Sissy is feeling under the weather, I suspect summer flu, and sunstroke. I suggest we leave her alone." Caroline Howard, glanced at the framed photograph in the living room, where her husband, the late Mr. Howard, stood pale, and gallant, and the piano, which had been silent for a few days, and she thought that when the month changed, Irene would surely cheer up, as heat of July was always so burdensome.


The vast jasmine bushes were fragrant, they shaded cobblestone path, air was fresh after the sudden rain, despite this the tropical heat still lingered. Persis Ford leaned against the doorway of the Red Cross Office, and with one gloved hand she fingered a small shell that hung under the collar of her uniform, in the other hand she had a thick a folder full of signed forms and War Bonds templates. Slowly, her associates filed out, in pairs, laughing, out of that great house with its echoing corridors, and the flimsy shelves and bundles of cloth dominated all of their time, from eight to ten hours a day every day.

Friday's revelry glowed on many faces, and Persis almost automatically found herself half-carelessly responding to the greetings and smiles as that group of girls and women dispersed in different directions. Many headed their way to John Northway's women's clothing stores, which had already been extremely popular for a few years, because the marketing was successful. Loose jackets and light blouses and skirts, that followed the military style, as well as light little hats, were seen more and more often in the street scene, as well as buttrick-pattern clothes. Persis, jerked her light summer jacket into a better position, as she thought of what she might write to Ken, as it was almost time to do her weekly dispatch of letters.

Then a voice said, with a faint french accent, with lingering, soft wovels. " C'est vraiment toi, comme c'est beau, Bon Dieu est miséricordieux aujourd'hui. Persis Ford! So, matrons of the Croix Rouge, have captured you in their sharp claws, that uniform is captivating, very official. It's been a while since we last met, hasn't it?" Persis, startled, and all things connected with correspondence with her brother vanished from her mind, as she realized she was squeezing shell almost too tightly as its edges pressed against her palm, as she looked up. The watery sunlight sparkled and shadows of the linden leaves trembled, as a figure leaned against a nearby wrought iron gate as it stepped into the light, Persis squinted, and remarked in her playful, friendly tone, that she was known for all over Toronto." Demonstrations and rallies of all kinds, have been considerably less recently, it's the war-effort. Your vowels bleed quebec-patois, so I can assume that you have only recently returned to Toronto, or is this a flying visit, Athénaïs?"

Athénaïs, smiled broadly, and said "Just a quick visit, a flying one as you so cleverly pointed out. There is a lot of discontent in the air, not everyone is happy with the conservative and pro-war policies of our government. There are whispers in the streets of Quebec, and there is a strong low pressure in the air that may bring flooding before long into a violent wind which may sweep over all of Canada."

Persis furrowed her brows, and looked at Athénaïs in silence. Despite her name, she did not resemble Sun King's famous mistress at all, except, perhaps, for her steely ambition, to make world a better place. She was a slender, almost frail woman, whose thick and slightly unruly hair, the color of old syrup, was twisted under a wide hat, into which a hat pin with a snake motif had been carelessly inserted, her clothes served one purpose; comfort and efficiency, fashion was always an after thought. She was dressed in an elegant but demure white Edwardian style blouse and narrow green skirt with a red belt, the color of that belt always reminded Persis of Leslie. At first glance, she seemed girlish, but that first impression was soon shattered, as weight of years showed in her eyes. Those long-lashed eyes were, passionate, and so pale blue that they looked almost gray at times.

Together, Athénaïs and Persis began to walk, the streets of Toronto criss-crossed by radial lines and horse-drawn carriages. And before long they arrived at the shady and pleasant greenery of Wychwood Park. Athénaïs spread a little blanket on the cool grass, and took from basket a tall bottle and two glasses, and seeing Persis' astonished expression, she smiled and said gravely, "I don't go anywhere without something to drink, this happens to be lemon lemonade, and a blanket, for one never knows what afternoon or evening may give. This place is always so lovely, and I'm happy that I happened to meet you today, for I've missed your witty observations, of all social ills." Persis, remarked, "I don't think I ever asked why you started talking to me after that one public lecture on socialism?" Athénaïs's face was just a pale patch, and then she said quietly, with an intent tone, "The reason was simple. You are a Ford, but immediately I saw that you too wanted something more, an opportunity, perhaps, or a window, and I decided that I could be that window for you."

Persis half closed her eyes, as the clammy air hovered around them, as she remembered that early evening about six years before, when almost by accident she had ended up listening to an open lecture. In a very short order Persis found herself in the middle of a frenetic set, which partially differed completely from her previous one, all social seasons and endless hob-knobbing. Every Thursday, she had gone to the gatherings with an eager open mind, because there that set argued about everything possible, and developed visions of the future, which now seemed shattered by the impact of total war. Athénaïs had encouraged Persis to argue, and to challenge, others and she had done so in that small but intimate circle of friends and other like-minded individuals. And as the weeks and then the years went by, Leslie and Ken got used to Persis occasionally breaking the quiet silence at the breakfast table to talk enthusiastically about a current topic that was making headlines, but often in the opposite direction from the general standard.

Water of the nearby Taddie Creek Pond reflected shimmering verdant trees. Slowly, they drank lemonade, and exchanged news. Persis found to her own surprise that she was describing atmosphere of Primrose Hollow very enthusiastically. Athénaïs, suddenly touched glittering golden chain, around Persis's neck, and remarked, playfully, "Beautiful, conch, of a very peculiar color, but it suits you. Do you know the secret, seductive noise of the sea, which is said to be imprisoned in just such conch shells? But on the other hand, if anyone looks like a mermaid walking the land, that's you, so it is eminently suitable decoration." The pale creamy mesh lace, from Athénaïse's gloves felt rough but not at all unpleasant, Persis noted, but at the same time, she slipped conch necklace back under her collar, trying to say as nonchalantly as possible, "Ah, that's just a little token of friendship, that one friend did give me once, years ago. I have lately made it into neclace." Athénaïs, only looked solemn, as she said, "So, your friend and you were once gathering seashells by the seashore, rather like Mary Anning?"

Persis blinked, and said, "Wasn't she one of the early British paleontologists?" Athénaïs, nodded, and after a moment of silence said, in a frantic voice, "And not only that, she did significant and groundbreaking work for women's agency, against male patriarchy. Now it's our time to carry on their work. Men and their policies and political parties, rule cabinets, those dark paneled halls, of gilded scroll-work, paintings. I believe that women's liberation movement and also socialism will rise, sooner or later."

Persis had to admit the vibrant ring of truth in Athénaïs's captivating words. Persis stood up and as she did so, she impulsively remarked, "Athenais, don't get arrested like Emma Goldman, if the atmosphere in Quebec is as heated as you say." Athénaïs only smiled, and embraced Persis, in her soft, fleeting way, as she whispered, Je fais attention, mon ange, merci de votre sollicitude. Au revoir! Then Athénaïs was but a slender shadow on the dark grass.


Honey yellow evening light glowed as Persis slowly walked towards her home, through the residential area of South Drive. Leslie's glowing red rose bushes were a powerful splash of color, and they matched mangeta-hued roses of the neighboring houses. Fierce, but balmy wind had blown rose, jasmine, and peony petals onto the soft grass, and they were like a fairytale carpet that spread beneath Persis's low heels.

Leslie raised her golden lofty head, and smiled, gently saying to Persis, as she saw her daughter at the doorway. " Darling, front post has arrived. Would you like some tea, as you look tired, had you had a hard day?" Persis, smiled in a non-committal way, to her Mother, as she said, "Not really, it was usual Friday rush."

A bit later, after two cups of too sweet tea, and inner politics of Rosedale Ladies Aid debates later, Persis had slipped into her home dress, and hanging her uniform on the hanger, she impatiently cut open Ken's latest letter.

Dear Butterfly! I am in a very irritable mood, and though I know it is not the behavior of a gentleman, I cannot help myself. I have always been able to be honest with you. Sometimes it seems overwhelmingly difficult to pick up a pen and write, even to you. I know very well that all of you back home place our hope in us, but that hope is a heavy burden to carry. I cannot write about what I have seen here, because there are no words for it.

Or maybe I can try anyway. Do you remember when it was rainy season in Japan, and the frogs would jump in mud puddles, and sink and dive? Except the mud is cold and deep, and none of us are frogs, we can't dive. We do what we can here with the resources we've been given. The other day we got some local tobacco, it smells damp like everything here. It's July, but it might as well be early fall, because it's been raining all the time here lately. There is no absolute certainty where we will be transferred next. Something big is coming, I can feel it in the air, the tension is almost sizzling.

I'd like to believe in rainbows, as Walter apparently did until the very end, but I can't. My own illusions are shattered here, people are beasts, and I lead them, over the top, as shrill whistle echoes in the morning fog, through the torn chaos. I have lately been reading that Perennial, devoted to war poetry, which you sent me, and I have a thought which I may say more about later, if it gets a chance to mature. I do think that literature and memorization is important. One have to try to write, put into words, somehow, if one can, the incomprehensible horror that surrounds us here. It seems that some do.

The present is blackness and survival and yesterdays are a golden half-forgotten dream where July was dedicated to Ingelside and revelries, and our madcap schemes. Prince Edward Island, that last July, was like a dream, perfect and lovely, and I spent unforgettable times there, which I may tell you about someday, if I can. A dream was fulfilled at that time, a dream that helps me to endure and above all to survive.

Sometimes I fear that my own humanity has worn away. It would be easier if I believed in the grace of God, or those other things that Jerry Meredith was always raving about, but as you know, we Fords are helpless heathens, however cleverly we disguise it. Because churches are places for us to show off, not for quiet and serious contemplation. Maybe the reason is a certain cynicism that exists in our circles, where even religion and other holy, immortal things, such as love, are seen as a market value, and somewhere else is purer, if that can be the case in any corner of the world anymore? My thoughts are very vague, but I know, I hope you catch them.

Write often, and send parcels, too, my dearest sister.

With love, Ken.

Persis carefully folded Ken's letter aside, and tried to collect her thoughts, which seemed to fly like moths, with slightly trembling fingers, she removed the necklace, and slipped it into its laquered box, suddenly her neck felt very bare, because the light weight of that jewelry had been comforting, in a strange way. Persis, grabbed the letter paper and began to outline her answer, in her careful, perceptive, but at the same time frankly affectionate style.

Lily-shaped table lamp reflected its light on Persis' features as she patiently wrote. Fierce tunes of Verdi's Don Carlos echoed from the living room, and Persis suppressed her smile, because apparently Father had arrived home. And with a sigh, Persis shook her hands, and as she did so her eyes fell on a cream-colored invitation card that read in elegant calligraphy; Invitation to Dorian Gardiner's 25th birthday on August 29, 1917, at Gardiner Hall, in Kingsport. Persis, glanced at her calendar, and slipped the invitation into it.

Suddenly, behind the windows, the rain began to patter. Feeling relieved, Persis opened the window, as the rain wetted her hair, softly, and its color darkened from the shade of weathered wheat to gold. Persis smiled at the sky, a joyfully happy, almost childish smile, for everything was suddenly almost simple, as her beloved brother had bared his heart to her, in his veiled way.


Life in Primrose Hollow that late July were quiet, and leisurly content. Nan was quite often writing in her diary, Di was reading aloud the work of Frances Hogson Burnett. Alice had been reading a letter that had come in the mail a couple of days ago, it had Ontario stamps on it. As Di had asked about its contents, Alice had smiled faintly and remarked, "Apparently my parents have traveled to Ontario to see my oldest sister, Cora, that visit could be very interesting." And Di inquired, "Too many cooks in the same kitchen huh?" Alice shook her head, and said thoughtfully, "Cora is very dutiful, she's a bit like Ellen Douglas in her opinions."

Nan looked up from her diary and remarked, "Ellen's clever, but I always imagined you'd like Rosemary better, Di, at least that's how I remembered it during our childhood piano lessons. You were very determined and got Walter excited too, and for a while Rosemary kept walking from the Manse to Ingelside in the afternoons, until the two of you made sufficient progress."

Alice, with a playful twinkle in her eyes, glanced in Di's direction as she said, "I can well imagine that. When I went to the Music Society's Library, I happened to meet Madeleine, and we had tea, as usual. She sent warm greetings to everyone, and she promised to look for that one cantata that Jerry had mentioned in his letter, which you had written on a separate piece of paper, Nan. Di, she wasn't dressed in different shades of brown, as usual, but in a hazy blue dress, which was very elegant."

Nan, glanced in Di's direction, and her twin looked very excited, at this news, Nan didn't understand why, because of course even librarian, who was pleasant, in a slightly reserved way, could wear whatever color she wanted.

Nan rolled the ink pen between her fingers, and remarked, "We have to leave soon, to the Red Cross meeting."


On a windowsill, in a translucent thin vase, there was a single white jasmine sprig, spreading its enchanting, light, scent. It reminded Nan of Persis Ford, as she looked around cautiously, as light flickered in the great room and a muffled, hurried conversation could be heard from the corridor.

The door swung open, and a haggard woman whom Nan recognized as head Matron rushed into Kingsport Red Cross premises, a stack of ink-stained newspapers in her hand. The matron looked at the young faces before her, and said in a trembling voice, "The news has just come. Allies have begun battle, in Passchendaele, West Flanders, near Ypres, where our brave Canadian soldiers had been in 1915."

There was a stunned silence in the room and Nan involuntarily glanced around, her fingers clenched tightly around Jerry's ruby, and as if through the fog Nan heard Di's clear voice ask, "Matron, are there any CEF troops there too?" The matron glanced at the crumbling newspaper, and said in a soothing voice, "It just says here that there have been British troops at the opening battle, at a place called Pilckem."

Alice had materialized next to Di, as she began to sew in her calm way. Di discovered that that calmness was only a surface, because Alice's stitches were not as precise as usual, and she hummed something that nagged Di, as that strand of music was like an itch, under her shoulderblades.

Then matron raised her voice, and said, "I believe we all will not get anything done today, as you will surely want to go home. Fortunately, we are already well on our way, as the quotas have already been filled for this month. Please return your list to its usual place, and God bless you to everyone!"

Slowly, hushed conversation began to echo in different corners of the room, and Di crept up to Nan's side and squeezed her hand tightly, as she pondered that, luckily thick letter had recently arrived from Jerry.

And that night, no one slept in Primrose Hollow, as all the girls took turns sitting in the living room, just waiting for the mail to hit the carpet, perhaps there would be more information..


Downpour lashed, and the mud seemed to slosh as the CEF men carefully walked in line. Private Miller Douglas, glanced over his shoulder at the bluish sky that was as pale as Mary Vance's eyes. And with a shrug, he raised his rifle to a better position, and looked ahead. Curses could be heard all around him, which were by no means concealed, for the officers were not around to hear. None of Glen's boys were in the same squad as Miller, but that didn't matter, because he always worked best alone.

The August wind was blowing, the coordinates were clear, tomorrow they should be at Lens, if nothing went wrong. Lens, a town in the department of Pas de Calais, in northern France, which was near Arras and Vimy Ridge, where the Canadians had paid such a heavy and bloody price in the spring of 1917, there rose Hill 70.