Rilla carried it unopened to Rainbow Valley and read it there , in the spot where she had had her last talk with him . It is a strange thing to read a letter after the writer is dead -- a bitter-sweet thing , in which pain and comfort are strangely mingled . For the first time since the blow had fallen Rilla felt -- a different thing from tremulous hope and faith -- that Walter , of the glorious gift and the splendid ideals , still lived , with just the same gift and just the same ideals . That could not be destroyed -- these could suffer no eclipse . The personality that had expressed itself in that last letter , written on the eve of Courcelette , could not be snuffed out by a German bullet . It must carry on , though the earthly link with things of earth were broken . `` We 're going over the top tomorrow , Rilla-my-Rilla , '' wrote Walter . `` I wrote mother and Di yesterday , but somehow I feel as if I must write you tonight . I had n't intended to do any writing tonight -- but I 've got to . Do you remember old Mrs. Tom Crawford over-harbour , who was always saying that it was ` laid on her ' to do such and such a thing ? Well , that is just how I feel . It 's ` laid on me ' to write you tonight -- you , sister and chum of mine . There are some things I want to say before -- well , before tomorrow . `` You and Ingleside seem strangely near me tonight . It 's the first time I 've felt this since I came . Always home has seemed so far away -- so hopelessly far away from this hideous welter of filth and blood . But tonight it is quite close to me -- it seems to me I can almost see you -- hear you speak . And I can see the moonlight shining white and still on the old hills of home . It has seemed to me ever since I came here that it was impossible that there could be calm gentle nights and unshattered moonlight anywhere in the world . But tonight somehow , all the beautiful things I have always loved seem to have become possible again -- and this is good , and makes me feel a deep , certain , exquisite happiness .
It must be autumn at home now -- the harbour is a-dream and the old Glen hills blue XXXXX haze , and Rainbow Valley a haunt of delight with wild asters blowing all over it -- our old `` farewell-summers . ''
For before by from near of on over since with