Lens, was half ruins and ground rubble. Destroyed buildings whose windows gaped their emptiness like blind eyes. German trenches cut through the ruins of the brick homes of the city's coal miners. Hill 70 elevation, in the outskirts of Lens, so named because it was 70 meters above sea level, was the main objective.

The attack had begun at 4:25 a.m. 15.8.1917. Miller Douglas, completely exhausted, leaned on his rifle, it was the second day of the attack. Earlier there had been gas, chlorine, phosgene and diphosgene shells fired from Lieven projectors, before drums of burning oil had been thrown into German positions on the hill, along with heavy artillery fire, before CEF brigades had been advanced into the fray, as they had captured quite a few machine guns.

Yesterday's machine gun counter-fire, had moved down several men around him, just as he had reaped the grain, scythe's crescent blade gleaming at harvest time in the fields of the Glen. Men fell, and were wounded, they screamed almost silently, or at least it seemed so. Only a squeeze of a hand on the shoulder, one step, they crumbled, into a bloody mess, shot to pieces, from whizz of bullets.

Miller looked up, south side of the hill rose before him, a steep slope, and in the distance, half obscured by smoke, rose the vast treeless peak of the Hill. Huge rumble started, ear-splitting din as Miller ran crouching into the shell-hole, in front of him, that was half-filled with water. A great pressure of air seized him, and tore him like a rag-doll, and he felt himself flying, and then there was sharp burning feeling twined with seepingly wet sensation. And then there was nothing, only deep, black void of total oblivion, that enveloped him.

Private Michael O'Rourke, wiped his face, as he took a deep breath as he ran once more towards the enemy artillery fire, for there were wounded Canadians to be rescued. O'Rourke knew his duty, as a stretcher bearer. He noticed almost at his feet, a young, soldier lying wounded. And cautiously he beckoned, and they laid the soldier on the stretcher, and crept away.

Smoke rose, as did the distant rumble of the shells, could still be heard. Several remaining sections of CEF troops had moved to the east side of the hill. On south side there were was nothing but bodies, except for this one. It started to rain, again. A quiet cold drizzle.

"Nurse, that little bone saw, please. This soldier has one leg almost completely crushed. Amputation is the only option, if I wait any longer he'll go into septic shock. He seems to be solidly built, so maybe he will pull through. Butcher's Bill has been hard of Hill 70. New wounded still flow here. Hold the leg still and I'll make a cut!"

Miller cautiously opened his eyes, the light almost blinding him, as a neutral female voice said, "Good morning soldier, you are at 33rd Casualty Station at Béthune, among friends, as there are many other CEF men here. We had to to amputate your one leg."

Miller, understood nothing of the words, for he still felt his other leg, and carefully, he licked his chapped lips, and muttered hoarsely, "Are they still there?"

There was a small hint of cool amusement in Nurse voice as she answered in a patient tone, "Nothing vital is missing except a leg, soldier."


August sky that arched over the Glen was blue, as only a hot August morning can be, it was a shimmering deep, sincere blue. Mary Vance crumpled the telegram in the pocket of her lace trimmed apron, and looked out over the calm bay, the gentle breeze ruffling her hair, and then she turned on her heel and walked with quick steps to the shelter of a fragrant fir grove, and sat down on a large mossy stone. The wind rose, carrying with it hauntingly piercing sobs that left Mary's lips, for Miller was alive, alive, though seriously wounded.

Mary Vance, was dressed in a pair of overalls, of which Kitty Alec had remarked,"A perfectly indecent article of clothing that ought to be banned." as she worked as Luke MacAllister's helper in the fields, and they both bound grain stacks by the dozen.

She thought of the sincere sympathy, that she had received from both at Ingelside and Manse, when she had visited both places after her errand at Carter Flaggs. Mary Vance had been standing in Ingelside's living room, a room that had meant to her as a child a certain elegance that she had hardly experienced in her earlier life, and she had told Miller's news, with her usual wim. " Some of the locals have remarked to me about my betroted having only one leg. But he's still Miller, even if he had no legs at all. I'll take him, most willingly, unless Lloyd George, happened to be free, which of course he is not. I can tell you that I love to shock Kitty Alec. She glared at me when she met me in my overalls a couple of days ago. Fortunately, the world is moving forward, and overalls are quite practical workclothes, even if dear Cornelia too looks ascance at them, and mutters something about my legs, but my legs are looking mighty fine in them! I had covered my braids with a colorful scarf that Miller had given to me, it is French silk, and very becoming, all different shades of blue. Namely, it is the duty of us girls to do our part, now that the harvest is coming. Are any of you coming to the fields, if not there are need of helping hands at the Carter Flaggs, too."

Rilla, glanced at Mary Vance, and then she turned her eyes, quickly to her slender white fingers, imagining her shiny oval nails breaking in the haymaking, and the hot sweat running down her neck. If she was there for even half a day, her creamy skin would be red, and full of sun spots that she really didn't want more of. And Rilla noticed that Susan, who was taking the tea tray into the kitchen, seemed pensive, for some reason.

After hearing the news, Una had, pressed Mary Vance's hand a long time, with her always cool fingers. Mary had noted in a faint way that Una had looked pale, and strained, as her clover brooch had glimmered faintly, as they both had stood on the vine shaded porch, and loaded scrumpcous tea tray, for upcoming Laidies Aid meeting. Mary had remarked, "Una, is everything all right. I wouldn't bring it up otherwise, but you've seemed a bit troubled lately. It's no wonder, though, these days."

Una, concentratedly arranged the coffee service, on the tray. It was thin bone china, with delicate golden rim, and hazy orange lily flowers, and silently she looked up at Mary, and said, "Only usual Glen and the Red Cross Youth Association errands that piles up, even though it's summer. You know how I hate gossip. Sometimes it feels like the girls there just focus on spreading rumors instead of doing the work. Rilla tries her best, but sometimes it's like walking on tar." Mary Vance, said briskly, "Well, next time I can come along. Maybe I can help somehow, even if I put only Reese and Clow siblings in their places, if they are there at all."

Mary Vance wiped her face, and stretched. In front of her was a handsome row of bound grain stacks. Reddish clouds shimmered on the horizon, and somewhere a rye bird sang softly, and as Mary watched, sky smoke from Luke MacAllister's pipe smelled familiar, for his tobacco was the same variety that Marshall Elliott had smoked in Mary's childhood. And with steady sure steps Mary walked towards her home, and with swiftest fingers Mary undid the cloth covering her hair, and tied it around her neck, the softness of the silk, no substitute for Miller's firm grip, but it had to do, for now.

To Gilbert's surprise, Rilla announced that she would go to Carter Flagg´s as a salesperson for a month, so that Carter could help with the harvest. Gilbert's eyes sparkled with mischief as he, after writing the recipe for Abbie Flagg, said, " Do you think you'd enjoy weighing sugar or beans, and listening to the villagers bicker?"

Rilla, lifted her chin, and said in her stubborn style, which was like a distant echo of Anne's voice, in their Avonlea epochs, " Probably not, but I am of no use in the fields. I want to do my part, for Mary was right. Our loved ones are in the front, they´re facing horrors, so that we would be safe, so that our future, whatever it will be, would be bright, if anything can be bright now."

Gertrude Olivier and Anne Blythe glanced at each other, and held back their smiles, for Rilla's words glowed with a slight fatalism, romanticism, and a tinge of patriotism.

Susan was toiling in Albert Craford's oat fields when Mr. Pryor drove by in his shiny wagon one warm, sultry afternoon. And what happened, about a week later, became one of the legends of Ingelside Great War Annals for years, nay decaces to come.

A couple of days later, after Mistress of Ingelside, had seen Susan chase pompous and oily, Whiskers on the Moon, all over Ingelside´s front lawn, with a glint of the Furies in her mien, Anne rested in the garden of the House of Dreams, on a small garden swing, and looked around thoughtfully.

The handsome rows of poplars from Elizabeth Russel's time cast shadows on the lawn, which was already a little wild, and overgrown, with sweet smelling clover and moss, as Leslie´s and her children's feet no longer ran on it. Imported English Rose Bushes, planted by Persis Leigh, were like a green wall almost as tall as a man, for they had completely conquered one corner. Those shimmering blood-red roses climbed on a lettice trellis, that Owen had built. Their fragrance always had something mysterious and half-hidden, in their blossoms. Anne, got up from the swing, and touched one of the flowers, cautiously.

Nearby Captain Jim's large creamy shells were almost buried under the grass, and in one corner grew a cluster of bluebells, their delicate bluish-lilac bell-shaped flowers showing as a strong splash against the surrounding greenery. The pale lilac honey flowers smelled intoxicating, and a lazy bee flew to one of the flowers. Smiling nostalgically, Anne touched the stone base of the house, and started walking through Four Winds, cemetery towards Ingelside.

Gilbert laid the latest volume of the Lancet on his knees, and glanced at Anne, who was sitting at her desk. She was writing furiously, her cheeks were flushed with inspiration, and her large gray-green eyes had look of concentrated introversion, that was captivating to behold.


Di Blythe, looked thoughtfully at the envelope she had received a couple of days ago. Mumsy's cursive handwriting was recognisable, at first glance. Nan sat a little way off, reading Jerry's letter excitedly.

Garden of Primrose Hollow was an oasis of peace, with velvety shadows and glimmers of playful sunlight that shimmered on the last jasmine bush flowers, which rivaled the scent of mint and parsley. The little ladybug walked along blade of grass, as Di dived into her letter.

Dearest Di! Earlier today I sat in the garden of the House of Dreams, and I remembered the past, how laughter and joy, and deep triumphant love have shone from every board of that house. How happy all the inhabitants of that place have been, in summers past, when the Fords were here, you and golden Persis Ford ran all over like a pair of Nereids or Naiads.

There have been times when I've seen myself in you.

Deep friendships have been a cornerstone of my existence since I arrived in Avonlea. When I met Diana in the garden at Ochard Slope. How I collected my circle of intimates in Avonlea, and later at Queen's I met Pris and Stella, and our quartet did not become complete until Redmond when Phil joined us. But, and this is hard to articulate, none of them have meant as much to me as one other I encountered here at Four Winds. I will never forget the moment when I first saw her, chasing geese. Despite the rosy cloud of happiness I was in, and my dear Gil's arm around my waist, I experienced a shock that lasted for weeks, because she was something indescribable. I thought, like Browning's famous verses declain

"That quick the round smooth cord of gold,

This coiled hair on your head, unrolled,

Fell down you like a gorgeous snake. "

Although I was far from Venice, which is the setting of that poem, as you may remember, that line was the only one that came to mind, and it still does. So, I understand how you feel, as I noticed how you looked at Alice when you were here. She has a certain coolness that, combined with startling warmth, can be captivating, or so I've noticed, over the years. She reminds me of someone else, in places.

Friendships are the salt of life.

Darling, be careful not to confuse friendship with love, as I did, for they are two sides of the same coin. Friendship is like a warm blanket that is always present, but love is forever, if you manage to find that kind of froever-love, what I wish for you, with all my heart,

with all my love,

Anne.

Di laid the thin slips of the letter on the rustling grass, as she remembered in faint way how, sometimes, Mumsy had, half furtively, glanced at Aunt Leslie, always as the summer sunset blazed across the sky, and the rays of light had crowned Leslie in a sort of nimbus, before the Fords had walked, back to the House of Dreams.

Persis' laughter had shimmered in the evening, as Di had hastily climbed into the attic so that she could watch their departure as long as possible, in her supreme solitude, with a slight, queer, ache in her heart. Ken and Persis had been running around, in circles, as Uncle Owen had crowned Aunt Leslie's hair with wild flowers from Ingelside's garden.

Nan looked up from Jerry's letter. There were a dreamy look in her eyes as she inquired, "Did Mumsy write to you too about Susan and Mr. Pryor?"

Di, folded the letter into her pocket, as she was glancing questioningly at Nan, remarked, "No, she did not. This was quite different missive altogether. What happened? Did Mr. Pryor run over Susan on Glen Street, perhaps, or did Susan get into an argument with him at Carter Flagg's store?"

Hilarity flashed in Nan's eyes, and she said triumphantly, "He apparently proposed to Susan, of course Susan refused in the most brilliant Susan-like-way possible."

The twins' laughter shimmered in the garden, bright as bells.


Christine Stuart Dawson, waved her gloved hand to Adeline Gardiner, who came to meet her at their usual lunch spot. When the last crumb had disappeared from their plates, Adeline glanced at Christine, and said somewhat pointedly, "I had imagined my brother's carousing days were long over, but he is a complete shambles. Of course the loss of Robert was shock, as they did Business with each other for a time. The memorial service was very elegant, if triftle hurried. Do you think you can do anything, as you've always had a certain sway over him?"

Christine hummed, as she said, "I already tried that when the news arrived. My advice is to let this run its course, it ends at some point."

Adeline wrinkled her nose, and said, "I suppose so. Timing really couldn't be any worse, because you know, Dorian's birthday is in a couple of weeks, and the invitations have already been sent out."

The barest hint of hilarity sparkled in Chrisine's eyes as she said, "Addie, Addie, Addie. I can almost solemnly promise that I will arrive at the Hall, with bells on, figuratively speaking."


Afterwards, Christine glanced at the note-folders that were spread out on the table in her guest suite, with soft, cat-like steps, she slipped into the hallway when a light, repeated knock was heard from the door. Alice Parker stood in the doorway, and with a regal nod, Christine let the girl in.

Alice glanced at Christine, a little hesitantly, and said, "That note was, intriguing."

Christine, crossed her arms with indolent insouence, as she said. " We have in the past months been immersed with intimate steely focus, of styles, and practices, and tactics, but, one component has always been missing, and that is the audience, but it is not problem, because very soon you will have it, on the palm of your hand."

Christine slid, over to Alice, and pressed extremely softly, two light kisses, on her cheeks, and so close, to Alice, Christine noticed to her surprise how, the girl's skin smelled lightly of French perfume, its elevated delicate scent was like coming home.

Alice hadn't stiffened, as Christine had assumed, but instead, she had swayed slightly on her heels, as if she had taken half a waltz step. Alice's dark eyelashes fluttered on her cheeks, and when she had looked up, her purple eyes had widened.

Christine, hid her smile, and said, with carefree levity, " There are many lessons to be had, but now, start with Duprac." And soon, Duprac's romantically melancholy ballad Au pays où se fait la guerre, sparkled in the hotel room, as the pale August moon rose slowly into the velvety dark sky.