We were not making much progress in opening conversation, but our charming hostess seemed to understand either the doctor’s words or his looks, for, stepping into another room, she called us presently to sit down to a table well supplied with plain but substantial food. She soon made us feel quite at home, just by her easy and agreeable ways. We did not once hear her voice in ordinary speech, and at length we began to suspect, what we afterward learned to be true, that she talked as the birds talk, only in song. Whether she used her language or ours she would always sing or chant her words, and every expression was perfect in rhythm and melody.
The doctor and I hesitated to say much to each other, out of deference to the feelings of this fair lunarian, but he took occasion to remark to me quietly that as she could not tell us her name just yet he proposed to call her Mona {Footnote: Mona is old Saxon for moon.} for the present. I assented easily, as it made little difference to me what we called her, if she would only remain with us.
It happened that the doctor, who knew everything, was well acquainted with dactylology and the latest sign language, used in the instruction of deaf mutes, and as it seemed likely that our stay in our present abode might be a prolonged one, he told me he would try to teach Mona to converse with us. I could not object, although I secretly wished I could have taken the place of instructor. But it soon occurred to me that I must be a fellow pupil, if we were all to talk in that way; and so, with this bond of sympathy established between us, Mona and I began our lessons.
During the closing years of the century great progress had been made, on the earth, in the method of talking by arbitrary signs and motions. The movements of the body and limbs and the great variety of facial expressions were all so well adapted to the ideas to be represented that it was comparatively easy for an intelligent person to learn to make known many of his thoughts. As our studies progressed day after day it began to dawn on me that Mona, in spite of the disadvantage of not knowing our spoken language, was learning faster than I was. I was somewhat chagrined at this at first, but it finally turned out to my advantage, for the doctor announced one day that Mona had acquired all he knew and could thenceforth teach me if I pleased. Here was a bond of sympathy that I had not looked for, but I was glad enough to avail myself of it, and delighted to find that Mona was also pleased with the plan. With her for a teacher it did not take me long to finish. Her graceful movements made poetry of the language, and the web she was weaving around my heart was strengthened every hour.
As Mona gradually learned to express herself to our comprehension we began to ask her questions about herself and her history. The doctor, being less under the spell of her charms than I was, showed a greater curiosity, and one of the first things he asked was:
“When do you expect the other members of your family home?”
Mona was at first puzzled, but saw his meaning as soon as the motions were repeated, and answered with a few simple signs:
“I have no friends to come home. I am alone.”
The expression we put into our faces told her of our sorrow and sympathy better than any words, and the doctor continued:
“But these other houses! Surely they are not all empty?”