“Sometimes I forgot for a little while what it really means and feel excited and proud—and then it comes over me again like a cold wind.”
“I envy Jem,” said Walter moodily.
“Envy Jem! Oh, Walter, you—you don’t want to go too.”
“No,” said Walter, gazing straight before him down the emerald vistas of the valley, “no, I don’t want to go. That’s just the trouble. Rilla, I’m afraid to go. I’m a coward.”
“You're not!” Rilla burst. out angrily. “Why, anybody would be afraid to go. You might be—why, you might be killed.”
“I wouldn’t mind that if it didn’t hurt,” muttered Walter. “I don’t think I’m afraid of death itself—it’s of the pain that might come before death—it wouldn’t be so bad to die and have it over—but to keep on dying! Rilla, I’ve always been afraid of pain—you know that. I can’t help it—I shudder when I think of the possibility of being mangled or—or blinded. Rilla, I cannot face that thought. To be blind—never to see the beauty of the world again—moonlight on Four Winds—the stars twinkling through the fir trees—mist on the gulf. I ought to go—I ought to want to go—but I don’t—I hate the thought of it—and I’m ashamed—ashamed.”
“But, Walter, you couldn’t go anyhow,” said Rilla piteously. She was sick with a new-terror that Walter would go after all. “You’re not strong enough,”
“I am. I’ve felt as fit as ever I did this last month. I’d pass: any examination—I know it. Everybody thinks I’m not strong yet—and I’m skulking behind that belief. I—I should have been a girl,”
