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I don't read Emerson either, but I like him when Paul reads him for me." "Well, I warn you there is an awful lot of him here!" Moya's voice was a trifle husky as she read on. "Old as Jove, Old as Love'" "I thought Love was young!" Christine in a whisper aside. "'Who of me Tells the pedigree? Only the mountains old, Only the waters cold, Only the moon and stars, My coevals are."
"Well, frankly, I think he's better out of the way for the next fortnight. The girls ought to go to bed early, and keep the roses in their cheeks for the wedding. Moya's head is full of her frocks and fripperies. She is trying to run a brace of sewing women; and all those boxes are coming from the East to be 'inspected, and condemned' mostly.
"That isn't the point," Mrs. Bogardus persisted gloomily. As she spoke, the two girls came into the room and stood listening. "What is the point, then?" Christine demanded. "Moya has no news; all those pages and pages, and nothing for anybody or about anybody!" "'Such an intolerable deal of sack to such a poor pennyworth of bread," the colonel quoted, smiling at Moya's bloated envelope.
You couldn't have a better teacher." "I'm sure of it," answered the young woman, turning gratefully to Kate. "I'll do my very best." "You shall have a room for yourself and the baby, and wages," and she named a sum that made Moya's eyes burn.
It was an uneventful summer on the Hill, but one of rather wearing intensity in the inner relations of the household, one with another; for nothing could be quite natural with a pit of concealment to be avoided by all, and an air of unconsciousness to be carefully preserved in avoiding it. Moya's success in this way was so remarkable that Paul half hated it.
The words carried their unintentional sting. But it was Moya's six lines at the bottom of his page that changed and softened everything. Moya always blessed when she took the initiative contrived, as swiftly as she could set them down, to say the very words that made the home-coming a coming home indeed. "Will Madam Bogardus be pleased to keep her place as the head of her son's house?" she wrote.
Paterno was the only one of them who could sympathize with Moya's widowhood; her husband had seen the Black Hand death sign a few months before, had disregarded it and had been stabbed in the back one night as he came home from his work. Conversation was not carried on fluently among them.
Moya's wise and beautiful, has wealth in plenteous store, And fortune fine in calves and kine, and lovers half a score; Her faintest smile would saints beguile, or sinners captivate, Oh! I think a dale of Moya, but I'll surely marry Kate.
The expression of her face meant life and death to him. The dreadful consciousness passed out of his eyes; tears washed it out as he rose from his knees by Moya's bed, and his mother kissed him, and laid his son in his arms. The following summer saw the club-house and all its affiliations in working order.
She would then return alone and wait for news at the garrison. That night, with Moya's help, she completed her packing, and on the following day the wedding party broke up. Fine, dry snowflakes were drifting past the upper square of a window set in a wall of logs.
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