`` Oh , what is happening on the western front tonight as I write this , sitting here in my room with my journal before me ? Jims is asleep in his crib and the wind is wailing around the window ; over my desk hangs Walter 's picture , looking at me with his beautiful deep eyes ; the Mona Lisa he gave me the last Christmas he was home hangs on one side of it , and on the other a framed copy of `` The Piper . '' It seems to me that I can hear Walter 's voice repeating it -- that little poem into which he put his soul , and which will therefore live for ever , carrying Walter 's name on through the future of our land . Everything about me is calm and peaceful and ` homey . ' Walter seems very near me -- if I could just sweep aside the thin wavering little veil that hangs between , I could see him -- just as he saw the Pied Piper the night before Courcelette . `` Over there in France tonight -- does the line hold ? '' CHAPTER XXVIII BLACK SUNDAY In March of the year of grace 1918 there was one week into which must have crowded more of searing human agony than any seven days had ever held before in the history of the world . And in that week there was one day when all humanity seemed nailed to the cross ; on that day the whole planet must have been agroan with universal convulsion ; everywhere the hearts of men were failing them for fear . It dawned calmly and coldly and greyly at Ingleside . Mrs. Blythe and Rilla and Miss Oliver made ready for church in a suspense tempered by hope and confidence . The doctor was away , having been summoned during the wee sma 's to the Marwood household in Upper Glen , where a little war-bride was fighting gallantly on her own battleground to give life , not death , to the world . Susan announced that she meant to stay home that morning -- a rare decision for Susan . `` But I would rather not go to church this morning , Mrs. Dr. dear , '' she explained . `` If Whiskers-on-the-moon were there and I saw him looking holy and pleased , as he always looks when he thinks the Huns are winning , I fear I would lose my patience and my sense of decorum and hurl a Bible or hymn-book at him , thereby disgracing myself and the sacred edifice . No , Mrs. Dr. dear , I shall stay home from church till the tide turns and pray hard here . '' `` I think I might as well stay home , too , for all the good church will do me today , '' Miss Oliver said to Rilla , as they walked down the hard-frozen red road to the church . `` I can think of nothing but the question , ` Does the line still hold ? ' '' `` Next Sunday will be Easter , '' said Rilla . `` Will it herald death or life to our cause ? '' Mr. Meredith preached that morning from the text , `` He that endureth to the end shall be saved , '' and hope and confidence rang through his inspiring sentences .
Rilla , looking up at the memorial tablet on the wall above their pew , `` sacred to the memory XXXXX Walter Cuthbert Blythe , '' felt herself lifted out of her dread and filled anew with courage .
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