“Kind of,” said Jennie; “if I knew enough about things to do anything worth while; but I’m afraid that by rising to my full height I shall always just fail to be able to see over anything.”
“You’ve done more for the schools of the county,” said Jim, “in the last year than any other county superintendent has ever done.”
“And we shall need the money so like—so like the dickens,” said Jennie.
“Oh, not so badly,” laughed Jim, “except for the first year. I’ll have this little farm paying as much as some quarter-sections when we get squared about. Why, we can make a living on this school farm, Jennie,—or I’m not fit to be the head of the school.”
There was another silence, during which Jennie took down her hair, and wound it around Jim’s neck.
“It will settle itself soon one of these days anyhow,” said he at last. “There’s enough to do for both of us right here.”
“But they won’t pay me,” she protested.
“They don’t pay the ministers’ wives,” said Jim, “and yet, the ministers with the right sort of wives are always the best paid. I guess you’ll be in the bill, Jennie.”
Jim walked to the open window and looked out over the still landscape. The untidy grounds appealed to him—there would be lessons in their improvement for both the children and the older people. It was all good. Down in the little meadow grew the dreaming trees, their round crowns rising as from a sea not quite to the level of the bungalow, their thrifty leaves glistening in the moonlight. Across the pretty bridge lay the silent little campus with its twentieth-century temple facing its chief priest. It was all good, without and within. He went across the hall to bid his mother good night. She clung to him convulsively, and they had their own five minutes which arranged matters for these two silent natures on the new basis forever. Jennie was in white before the mantel when he returned, smiling at the inscription thereon.
“Why didn’t you put it in Latin?” she inquired. “It would have had so much more distinction.”