Rilla Blythe, once the frivolous youngest daughter of Anne and Gilbert, stood on the veranda, clutching a crumpled letter. The air, usually sweet with the scent of her mother’s garden, felt heavy, as if the very sky over Glen St. Mary were mourning. Her brothers were gone—Walter with his poet’s heart and Jem with his steady courage—leaving a silence in the hallways that no amount of laughter could fill.
The Great War had finally reached the quiet shores of Prince Edward Island, turning the red dust of the roads into a path toward a terrifying, unknown world. At Ingleside, the golden haze of childhood was evaporating. Rilla of Ingleside
"I can’t just sit and wait for the post," Rilla whispered to the wind. Rilla Blythe, once the frivolous youngest daughter of