How could I face the reality ? There are times when I wish I had never been born . Life has always seemed such a beautiful thing to me -- and now it is a hideous thing . Rilla-my-Rilla , if it were n't for your letters -- your dear , bright , merry , funny , comical , believing letters -- I think I 'd give up . And Una 's ! Una is really a little brick , is n't she ? There 's a wonderful fineness and firmness under all that shy , wistful girlishness of her . She has n't your knack of writing laugh-provoking epistles , but there 's something in her letters -- I do n't know what -- that makes me feel at least while I 'm reading them , that I could even go to the front . Not that she ever says a word about my going -- or hints that I ought to go -- she is n't that kind . It 's just the spirit of them -- the personality that is in them . Well , I ca n't go . You have a brother and Una has a friend who is a coward . '' `` Oh , I wish Walter would n't write such things , '' sighed Rilla . `` It hurts me . He is n't a coward -- he is n't -- he is n't ! '' She looked wistfully about her -- at the little woodland valley and the grey , lonely fallows beyond . How everything reminded her of Walter ! The red leaves still clung to the wild sweet-briars that overhung a curve of the brook ; their stems were gemmed with the pearls of the gentle rain that had fallen a little while before . Walter had once written a poem describing them . The wind was sighing and rustling among the frosted brown bracken ferns , then lessening sorrowfully away down the brook .
Walter had said once XXXXX he loved the melancholy of the autumn wind on a November day .
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