she was thinking of little joyce's grave in the old burying-ground over-harbour -- little joyce who would have been a woman now, had she lived -- of the white cross in france and the splendid grey eyes of the little boy who had been taught his first lessons of duty and loyalty at her knee -- of jem in the terrible trenches -- of nan and di and rilla, waiting -- waiting -- waiting, while the golden years of youth passed by -- and she wondered if she could bear any more.