THE war gardeners went home at noon, but they came back late in the afternoon. When they finished the tasks they had set themselves, Mrs. Wilson suggested that they take eggs and radishes and lettuce, and meal to make ash-cakes, and have a picnic supper at Happy Acres; they might find some berries to add to the feast, and the boys were always hoping to catch fish in Tinkling Water, though they seldom did.
The plan was welcomed with enthusiasm, and they had a merry time and came home in the twilight. Anne, who was to spend the night at Broad Acres, sat on the porch with Mrs. Wilson and Ruth, knitting and talking.
“Wasn’t it dear of our old soldiers,� said Ruth, “to g-g-give up going to the Reunion, and have just the little service and parade here, and give their money to the Red Cross, to help in the war?�
Anne laughed. “Oh, Ruthie! You said ‘the war’ about this war,� she said.
“Well, why not?� Having used the word inadvertently, Ruth now defended it. “There never was such a big war in the world. And we are in it; it is our war; some Village b-boys are there and others are going. It is The War, isn’t it, mother?�
“Yes,� her mother answered slowly. “This is The War. The other—we’ve been living in its shine and shadow all these years—it is history now; a war. Why, our old soldiers put in acts what none of us before have put in words—that this is The War, our war.�
Presently the girls yawned and their fingers went more and more slowly with their knitting. Mrs. Wilson said an early bed hour would be the fitting end to their strenuous day. So they went upstairs, and Ruth escorted Anne to a spacious guest chamber.
“This is the room W-Washington stayed in,� said Ruth.
“I love it,� said Anne, looking around. “Oh! I love Broad Acres. Don’t you?�
Ruth laughed. “Love it? Why, it’s a part of us. The way-back-grandfather that c-c-came from England built it like his home there, and all our people since have lived here. It’s home.� Her voice lingered and thrilled on the word. Then she threw her arms around Anne and kissed her.