It did not matter that Miranda was insignificant and commonplace and flat-featured . It did not matter that she was the daughter of Whiskers-on-the-moon . All that mattered was that rapt , sacrificial look in her eyes -- that ever-burning , sacred fire of devotion and loyalty and fine courage that she was mutely promising Joe she and thousands of other women would keep alive at home while their men held the Western front . Rilla walked away , realising that she must not spy on such a moment . She went down to the end of the platform where Sir Wilfrid and Dog Monday were sitting , looking at each other . Sir Wilfrid remarked condescendingly : `` Why do you haunt this old shed when you might lie on the hearthrug at Ingleside and live on the fat of the land ? Is it a pose ? Or a fixed idea ? '' Whereat Dog Monday , laconically : `` I have a tryst to keep . '' When the train had gone Rilla rejoined the little trembling Miranda . `` Well , he 's gone , '' said Miranda , `` and he may never come back -- but I 'm his wife , and I 'm going to be worthy of him . I 'm going home . '' `` Do n't you think you had better come with me now ? '' asked Rilla doubtfully . Nobody knew yet how Mr. Pryor had taken the matter . `` No . If Joe can face the Huns I guess I can face father , '' said Miranda daringly . `` A soldier 's wife ca n't be a coward . Come on , Wilfy . I 'll go straight home and meet the worst . ''
There was nothing very dreadful XXXXX face , however .
Huns If Wilfrid at in of on that to with