No one exactly knew what to do or say. They just sat in silence in the front parlor of Ingleside waiting to hear news of Anne. She was upstairs in her own bed, with her husband and Dr. Parker attending her. All of the guests, who had somewhere to go, left. Those closest to the Blythes, either through marriages and long-lasting friendships, stayed with "the children," partly because they felt their presence might be needed, partly because they couldn't help but be curious. Besides except the Fords who were staying in the "House of Dreams" with Kenneth and Rilla and the Merediths, they had nowhere else to go, for they were guests of Ingleside.  Each Blythe child was sitting with his or her respective spouse and children if they had any, quietly awaiting word on their mother and glancing at Walter, who found a dark corner where he tried to hide.

Di was the first to speak of the subject that had to be approached. Disbelievingly she looked to the brother she had been so close to and asked, "How, Walter? Where have you been all of this time? Why have you let us believe that you've been dead for nine years?"

Before he could answer her question, Rilla, feeling joy, confusion, and a bit of betrayal all at once, chimed in, "Why would you put us through all of the hurt and the pain of losing you?"

"That is a question that we would all like an answer to, Son," came Gilbert's voice as slowly walked downstairs, with Anne leaning heavily on his arm.

Jack Wright, who was very concerned for his own wife's condition, left his place on a sofa between his wife and mother, making an empty place for Anne to sit. Anne sat there quietly, not taking her wide eyes off Walter, for fear he would disappear, and all of this would just be some daydream or worse, a form of dementia.

Walter walked to the middle of the room and looked over the many members of his extended family. He didn't know whether to stand or to sit, or if it even mattered. Unable to decide how to start explaining everything he kept quiet a while, still trying to decide what to do with himself. Then he caught a glimpse of his mother's imploring eyes, and somehow gained strength from them. He sat himself down at the fireplace, locked eyes with his mother, and began his tale.

"I suppose that it all started the morning after I wrote you that last letter, Rilla. I knew something was going to happen that day, as I told you. I was certain that I would die that day, and in a sense, I suppose that I did because the Walter Cuthbert Blythe you had known forever ceased to exist in the same manner. I did die on September 15, 1916. I was worried that the new dog tags they had given might be misplaced, so I sewed a paper containing my information into my coat as well. So you could be properly informed of my demise." He paused a moment, recalling memories he had long wished to have forgotten.

"As you all know, we went over the top that morning at dawn, planning to try and overtake Courcelette. Things were horrible straight from the start. We were using those new tanks. They were supposed to lead the way, making it safer for us. They moved too slowly though, and caused more confusion than good  In the end, I suppose the objective was obtained.

We fought hard to get what little ground we obtained. The Germans were well entrenched there, and our artillery hadn't cleaned it all out. I can't and even if I could, I wouldn't want to go into all of the details of what happened. You, Jem, Jerry, and Ken, you three should know well enough. I pray you do not haunt our loved ones with a complete list of the atrocities that we had to daily commit.

We were advancing fairly well, though the Huns gave us as they took from us. By eight in the morning, we had made it to the Sugar Factory. That was when I saw my friend Tommy fighting hand to hand with a German.  The German had the edge on Tommy and managed to shoot him in the chest. I screamed and ran to him. Tommy fell to the ground. I knocked the gun from the German's hands and we wrestled on the ground.

A blind anger took over me. The kind that I had experienced as a child, fighting Dan Reese, only magnified many more times. I suppose that anger was what kept me alive as long as it did. He tried to choke me with my dog tags; thankfully, they broke off my neck. The release allowed me to grab my knife and finish him.  I killed that man.  I hadn’t had time to dwell on that until now.  I’d prefer to not, honestly.

I ran back to Tommy, who was shaking violently and complaining of being so cold. There was nothing cold about the weather on that September day. I knew my friend was dying. I wrapped my coat around him. I tried to carry him to an ambulance but there was too much artillery fire and smoke and I couldn't see where I was going. Then a shell exploded somewhere, and everything went black

I awoke two weeks later in a field hospital, and couldn't remember anything. The staff didn't know who I was, because I had lost all of my identification in one way or another that day. They hoped that it would slowly return to me, but it didn't. That is, until I was in an automobile accident six months ago. I returned home as soon as I was able."

Everyone sat silently for a bit, taking in this information. It was amazing; nothing more than a miracle, and that is was the Reverend John Meredith proclaimed it to be. He and Walter had shared a special kinship of mind and spirit, and had taken news of Walter's "death" much as he would have had it been Jerry or Carl.

Walter had never broken the lock he had on his mother's eyes that were slowly beginning to brim with tears or joy, relief, years of heartache and anguish, and gratitude. He finally looked about him to see his sisters' eyes also beginning to brim with tears, as well as those of all the other women in the room. He looked to his father; his firm, steady, supportive father, who also had tears in his eyes.

Gilbert walked to his son; the son long thought dead and buried "somewhere in France." Walter stood to meet him, and soon fell into open arms and a joyous, welcoming heart. "Welcome home, my son; my son Walter. Look at you! You're alive!  You’re a grown man now! Thank Heaven above, you are alive!"

Soon his mother and siblings joined in the embrace. Walter was finally home. He wasn't really dead. He hadn't deserted them. However, after getting over the primary adulation of his return, Nan asked, curiosity driving her nearly insane, "So where have you been the last nine years?"