‘With the chilly calm on her brow
That only the dead may wear’—
Have you ever seen the chilly calm on the brow of the dead, Emily?”
“Yes,” said Emily softly, recalling that grey dawn in the old house in the hollow.
“I thought so—otherwise you couldn’t have written that—and even as it is—how old are you, jade?”
“Thirteen, last May.”
“Humph! Lines to Mrs. George Irving’s Infant Son—you should study the art of titles, Emily—there’s a fashion in them as in everything else. Your titles are as out of date as the candles of New Moon—
‘Soundly he sleeps with his red lips pressed
Like a beautiful blossom close to her breast’—
The rest isn’t worth reading. September—is there a month you’ve missed?—‘Windy meadows harvest-deep’—good line. Blair Water by Moonlight—gossamer, Emily, nothing but gossamer. The Garden of New Moon—
‘Beguiling laughter and old song
Of merry maids and men’—
Good line—I suppose New Moon is full of ghosts. ‘Death’s fell minion well fulfilled its part’—that might have passed in Addison’s day but not now—not now, Emily—
‘Your azure dimples are the graves
Where million buried sunbeams play’—
Atrocious, girl—atrocious. Graves aren’t playgrounds. How much would you play if you were buried?”
Emily writhed and blushed again. Why couldn’t she have seen that herself? Any goose could have seen it.
