There were moments when waiting at home, in safety and comfort, seemed an unendurable thing.
The moon burst triumphantly through an especially dark cloud and shadow and silver chased each other in waves over the Glen.

Rilla remembered one moonlit evening of childhood when she had said to her mother, "The moon just looks like a sorry, sorry face." She thought it looked like that still--an agonised, care-worn face, as though it looked down on dreadful sights.

What did it see on the Western front?
In broken Serbia?
On shell-swept Gallipoli?
"I am tired," Miss Oliver had said that day, in a rare outburst of impatience, "of this horrible rack of strained emotions, when every day brings a new horror or the dread of it.

No, don't look reproachfully at me, Mrs.Blythe.

There's nothing heroic about me today.