“I have a tryst to keep.”
When the train had gone Rilla rejoined the little trembling Miranda.
“Well, he’s gone,” said Miranda, “and he may never come back—but I’m his wife, and I’m going to be worthy of him. I’m going home.”
“Don’t you think you had better come with me now?” asked Rilla doubtfully. Nobody knew yet how Mr. Pryor had taken the matter.
“No. If Joe can face the Huns I guess I can face father,” said Miranda daringly. “A soldier’s wife can’t be a coward. Come on, Wilfy. I'll go straight home and meet the worst.”
There was nothing very dreadful to face, however. Perhaps Mr. Pryor had reflected that housekeepers were hard to get and that there were many Milgrave homes open to Miranda—also, that there was such a thing as a separation allowance. At all events, though he told her grumpily that she had made a nice fool of herself, and would live to regret it, he said nothing worse and Mrs. Joe put on her apron and went to work as usual, while Sir Wilfrid Laurier, who had a poor opinion of lighthouses for winter residences, went to sleep in his pet nook behind the woodbox, a thankful dog that he was done with war weddings.
