—I can’t do anything to win the war—but I must do something to help at home.”
“The cotton has come up for the sheets,” said Mrs. Blythe. “You can help Nan and Di make them up. And, Rilla, don’t you think you could organize a Junior Red Cross among the young girls? I think they would like it better and do better work by themselves than if mixed up with the older people.”
“But, mother—I’ve never done anything like that.”
“We will all have to do a great many things in the months ahead of us that we have never done before, Rilla.”
“Well”— Rilla took the plunge—“I'll try, mother—if you'll tell me how to begin. I have been thinking it all over and I have decided that I must be as brave and heroic and unselfish as I can possibly be.”
Mrs. Blythe did not smile at Rilla’s italics. Perhaps she did not feel like smiling or perhaps she detected a real grain of serious purpose behind Rilla’s romantic pose. So here was Rilla hemming sheets and organizing a Junior Red Cross in her thoughts as she hemmed; moreover, she was enjoying it—the organizing that is, not the hemming. It was interesting and Rilla discovered a certain aptitude in herself for it that surprised her. Who would be president? Not she. The older girls would not like that. Irene Howard? No, somehow Irene was not quite as popular as she deserved to be. Marjorie Drew? No, Marjorie hadn't enough backbone. She was too prone to agree with the last speaker. Betty Mead—calm, capable, tactful Betty—the very one! And Una Meredith for treasurer; and, if they were very insistent, they might make her, Rilla, secretary. As for the various com-
