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Then will yet my Mother yield A pillow in her greenest field; Nor the June flowers scorn to cover The clay of their departed lover." "That is beautiful," Mrs. Bogardus murmured hastily. "Even I can understand that." Moya thanked her with a glance. "And what did the infallible John say?" Christine inquired. "John looked at me and smiled, as at a babbling infant" "Good for John!"
Then she rose and walked quickly to the door. "Just a breath of cold air!" she panted. The doctor, Moya, and Mrs. Creve had followed her into the hall. Moya placed herself on the settle beside her and leaned to support her, but she sat back rigidly with her eyes closed. Mrs. Creve looked on in quiet concern. "Let me take you into the study, Mrs. Bogardus!" the doctor commanded.
If she knows him, why doesn't he know her? Why won't he own her? He's afraid of her. His eyes are ready to burst out of his head whenever she comes near him." "Did Mrs. Bogardus write that telegram herself?" "She did." "And what did she tell you to do with it?" "Send it to her son." "Then why don't you send it?" This was the disputed message: "Come. Your father has been found.
It was time to be making winter plans again. Mrs. Bogardus knew that her son's young family was now complete without her presence. Moya had gained confidence in the care of her child; she no longer brought every new symptom to the grandmother. Yet Mrs. Bogardus put off discussing the change, dreading to expose her own isolation, a point on which she was as sensitive as if it were a crime.
She asked Miss Sallie to take her place at the tea-tray. "What is it?" "The boy they cannot find him. Don't say anything." She had turned ashy white, and Katy's pretty flushed face had a wild expression. In five minutes the search had begun. Mrs. Bogardus was at the telephone, calling up the quarry, for she was short of men. One order followed another quickly. Her voice was harsh and deep.
"Well, not quite. He's up and dressed and walks about, but he doesn't come down to his meals, he can eat so very little at a time, and it tires him to sit through a dinner. It isn't one of those ravenous recoveries. It went too far with him for that." "His mother was perfectly magnificent through it all, they say." "Have you seen much of Mrs. Bogardus?"
But when it came to placing the real man, Adam Bogardus, beside that real woman, once his wife, their son could but own with awe that there is mercy in extinction, after all; in the chance, however it may come to us, for slipping off those cruel disguises that life weaves around us.
It all depends on how the people act. It is a rainy day, and nothing has occurred of a local nature, that is, nothing of a hair standing nature, so we will just spoil a few sheets of paper relating, in a Sunday School book style, the circumstances of an excursion after woodcock, the other day, indulged in by W.C. Root, the Wisconsin amateur Bogardus, Jennings McDonald, Captain of a breech-loading steamboat, and the subscriber.
Now, Bogardus holds his tongue like a gentleman as to what happened in the woods. He doesn't mention his comrades' names. And the packer has disappeared; so he can't be questioned. Seems to me a little bird told me there was an attachment between one of those Bowen boys and Miss Christine?
A little later, when the cold has formed a crust, our men can get in on snowshoes. There is nothing for it but patience, Mrs. Bogardus, and faith in the boy's endurance. The pluck that made him stay behind will help him to hold out." Moya gave a hurt sob; the colonel stepped to the desk and stood there a moment turning over his papers.
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