Rilla Of Ingleside -

James Kitchener Anderson—her "little Jims"—was her anchor. Every time she felt the urge to succumb to the "vague, dark shadows" of the casualty lists, Jims would reach out a small, sticky hand, pulling her back to the present.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold, Rilla sat by the hearth. Susan Baker was busy in the kitchen, her knitting needles clicking like a frantic heartbeat.

"Rilla, dear," Susan said, not looking up. "You’ve grown. Not just in height, but in the way you carry the world."

Rilla looked at her hands—calloused from garden work and red from scrubbing. She wasn't the girl who had danced at the Four Winds lighthouse, dreaming only of her first party. She was a woman of the Red Cross, a mother to a child not her own, and a sister waiting for a miracle.

The war had taken much, but as she ran toward the gate, Rilla realized it hadn't taken their capacity to hope. The "Ingleside" spirit wasn't just about the happy days; it was about the strength to keep the lamps burning until the boys came home.