From that night Rilla Blythe's soul was the soul of a woman in its capacity for suffering, for strength, for endurance.
When the bitter dawn came she rose and went to her window.

Below her was a big apple-tree, a great swelling cone of rosy blossom.

Walter had planted it years ago when he was a little boy.

Beyond Rainbow Valley there was a cloudy shore of morning with little ripples of sunrise breaking over it.

The far, cold beauty of a lingering star shone above it.