Will be time enough to die.

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!"

"Christine, be still!"

"John looked at me and smiled," Moya repeated steadily. Nothing could have
stopped her now. She only hoped for some further scattering mention of
that "certain member" who had set them all at odds and spoiled what should
have been an hour's pure happiness. "'You'll get the pillow all right,' he
said. 'It might not be a green one, nor I wouldn't bank much on the
flowers; but you'll be tired enough to sleep without rocking about the
time you trust to Nature's tuckin' you in and puttin' victuals in your
mouth. I never _see_ nature till I came out here. I'd seen pretty woods
and views, that a young lady could take down with her paints; but how are
you going to paint that?'--he waved his tallow-stick towards the night
outside. 'Ears can't reach the bottom of that stillness. That's creation
before God ever thought of man. Long as I've been in the woods, I never