I must fly.

I promised I'd play for the next chorus--Alice Clow has such a headache." She was gone--oh, thank God, she was gone! Rilla was alone again, staring out at the unchanged, dream-like beauty of moonlit Four Winds.
Feeling was coming back to her--a pang of agony so acute as to be almost physical seemed to rend her apart.
"I cannot bear it," she said.

And then came the awful thought that perhaps she could bear it and that there might be years of this hideous suffering before her.
She must get away--she must rush home--she must be alone.

She could not go out there and play for drills and give readings and take part in dialogues now.

It would spoil half the concert; but that did not matter--nothing mattered.