The moon arose up in the murky east
A white and shapeless mass.'"
"Is that what you've been writing, Aunt Valeria?"
"No." She came back and sat down on the side of his bed. "No; Shelley wrote it. What shall I do for you?" she said, wondering how women that were used to children would meet the exigency, for the little voice was plaintive in spite of itself.
"I don't want anything," Ethan said, stoutly, and there was another pause. Then, by way of a delicate hint: "Grandmamma has been telling me a story."
"Has she?"
"Yes; about when she was young. Tell me about when you were young, Aunt Valeria."
The innocent petition jarred. Valeria was the youngest of her family, and had never yet been asked to think of herself as one who had left youth behind.
"There's nothing to tell about me," she said.
"Didn't you ever cross the Alleghanies in a stage-coach?"