`` I 'll try , Walter , '' she said . `` Oh , I will try . '' As she clung to him with her face pressed against his shoulder she knew that it had to be . She accepted the fact then and there . He must go -- her beautiful Walter with his beautiful soul and dreams and ideals . And she had known all along that it would come sooner or later . She had seen it coming to her -- coming -- coming -- as one sees the shadow of a cloud drawing near over a sunny field , swiftly and inescapably . Amid all her pain she was conscious of an odd feeling of relief in some hidden part of her soul , where a little dull , unacknowledged soreness had been lurking all winter . No one -- no one could ever call Walter a slacker now . Rilla did not sleep that night . Perhaps no one at Ingleside did except Jims . The body grows slowly and steadily , but the soul grows by leaps and bounds . It may come to its full stature in an hour . From that night Rilla Blythe 's soul was the soul of a woman in its capacity for suffering , for strength , for endurance . When the bitter dawn came she rose and went to her window . Below her was a big apple-tree , a great swelling cone of rosy blossom . Walter had planted it years ago when he was a little boy . Beyond Rainbow Valley there was a cloudy shore of morning with little ripples of sunrise breaking over it . The far , cold beauty of a lingering star shone above it . Why , in this world of springtime loveliness , must hearts break ?
XXXXX felt arms go about her lovingly , protectingly .
Blythe Ingleside Jims Rilla Valley Walter hour morning night slacker