In spite of Mrs. Kelsey’s protests that night after supper, Alma tripped about the kitchen and pantry wiping the dishes and putting them away. At dusk father, mother, and daughter seated themselves on the back porch.
“There!” sighed Alma. “Isn’t this restful? And isn’t that moon glorious?”
Mrs. Kelsey shot a quick look at her husband; then she cleared her throat nervously.
“Er--yes,” she assented. “I--I s’pose you know what it’s made of, an’ how big ‘tis, an’--an’ what there is on it, don’t ye, Alma?”
Alma raised her eyebrows.
“Hm-m; well, there are still a few points that I and the astronomers haven’t quite settled,” she returned, with a whimsical smile.
“An’ the stars, they’ve got names, I s’pose--every one of ’em,” proceeded Mrs. Kelsey, so intent on her own part that Alma’s reply passed unnoticed.
Alma laughed; then she assumed an attitude of mock rapture, and quoted:
“’Scintillate, scintillate, globule vivific,
Fain would I fathom thy nature specific;
Loftily poised in ether capacious,
Strongly resembling the gem carbonaceous.’”
There was a long silence. Alma’s eyes were on the flying clouds.