That very day a dispatch from some London paper had contained the cheerful announcement that `` the present moment is the darkest since the war began . '' It was dark enough , and Rilla wished desperately that she could do something besides waiting and serving at home , as day after day the Glen boys she had known went away . If she were only a boy , speeding in khaki by Carl 's side to the Western front ! She had wished that in a burst of romance when Jem had gone , without , perhaps , really meaning it . She meant it now . There were moments when waiting at home , in safety and comfort , seemed an unendurable thing . The moon burst triumphantly through an especially dark cloud and shadow and silver chased each other in waves over the Glen . Rilla remembered one moonlit evening of childhood when she had said to her mother , `` The moon just looks like a sorry , sorry face . '' She thought it looked like that still -- an agonised , care-worn face , as though it looked down on dreadful sights . What did it see on the Western front ? In broken Serbia ? On shell-swept Gallipoli ? `` I am tired , '' Miss Oliver had said that day , in a rare outburst of impatience , `` of this horrible rack of strained emotions , when every day brings a new horror or the dread of it . No , do n't look reproachfully at me , Mrs. Blythe . There 's nothing heroic about me today . I 've slumped . I wish England had left Belgium to her fate -- I wish Canada had never sent a man -- I wish we 'd tied our boys to our apron strings and not let one of them go . Oh -- I shall be ashamed of myself in half an hour -- but at this very minute I mean every word of it . Will the Allies never strike ? '' `` Patience is a tired mare but she jogs on , '' said Susan .
`` While the steeds of Armageddon thunder , trampling over our hearts , '' retorted Miss XXXXX .
Belgium Carl Glen Oliver Rilla Serbia Susan Western hour war