She even put on a grotesque old Irish woman 's costume and acted the part in the dialogue which Miranda Pryor had not taken . But she did not give her `` brogue '' the inimitable twist she had given it in the practices , and her readings lacked their usual fire and appeal . As she stood before the audience she saw one face only -- that of the handsome , dark-haired lad sitting beside her mother -- and she saw that same face in the trenches -- saw it lying cold and dead under the stars -- saw it pining in prison -- saw the light of its eyes blotted out -- saw a hundred horrible things as she stood there on the beflagged platform of the Glen hall with her own face whiter than the milky crab-blossoms in her hair . Between her numbers she walked restlessly up and down the little dressing-room . Would the concert never end ! It ended at last . Olive Kirk rushed up and told her exultantly that they had made a hundred dollars . `` That 's good , '' Rilla said mechanically . Then she was away from them all -- oh , thank God , she was away from them all -- Walter was waiting for her at the door . He put his arm through hers silently and they went together down the moonlit road . The frogs were singing in the marshes , the dim , ensilvered fields of home lay all around them . The spring night was lovely and appealing . Rilla felt that its beauty was an insult to her pain . She would hate moonlight for ever . `` You know ? '' said Walter . `` Yes . Irene told me , '' answered Rilla chokingly . `` We did n't want you to know till the evening was over . I knew when you came out for the drill that you had heard .
Little sister , I had XXXXX do it .
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