Rilla | Of Ingleside

"I can’t just sit and wait for the post," Rilla whispered to the wind.

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. Rilla of Ingleside

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. "I can’t just sit and wait for the

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

The Great War had finally reached the quiet shores of Prince Edward Island, turning the red dust of the roads into a path toward a terrifying, unknown world. At Ingleside, the golden haze of childhood was evaporating.