Rilla Blythe, once the frivolous youngest daughter of Anne and Gilbert, stood on the veranda, clutching a crumpled letter. The air, usually sweet with the scent of her mother’s garden, felt heavy, as if the very sky over Glen St. Mary were mourning. Her brothers were gone—Walter with his poet’s heart and Jem with his steady courage—leaving a silence in the hallways that no amount of laughter could fill.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold, Rilla sat by the hearth. Susan Baker was busy in the kitchen, her knitting needles clicking like a frantic heartbeat. Rilla of Ingleside
"I can’t just sit and wait for the post," Rilla whispered to the wind. Rilla Blythe, once the frivolous youngest daughter of
The Great War had finally reached the quiet shores of Prince Edward Island, turning the red dust of the roads into a path toward a terrifying, unknown world. At Ingleside, the golden haze of childhood was evaporating. Her brothers were gone—Walter with his poet’s heart
James Kitchener Anderson—her "little Jims"—was her anchor. Every time she felt the urge to succumb to the "vague, dark shadows" of the casualty lists, Jims would reach out a small, sticky hand, pulling her back to the present.
"Rilla, dear," Susan said, not looking up. "You’ve grown. Not just in height, but in the way you carry the world."