"Ah, it would be living poetry!" Drew answered.
She smiled, looked up, caught his gaze; her own dropped to her hands clasped in her lap.
"Das iss mo' nizeh dan heah?" she asked demurely.
"I shall never want to go away," he told her.
"And when doze hurricane coam," began her brother, "how—"
"Sh-h!" she exclaimed, while her eyes bubbled with laughter. "Why spik off doze when we go-ing in-vite peop' at ouah house? Possibly doze coam not aany mo'—doze huh'icane."
"Possibly not," agreed her brother.
"Aanyway," she continued triumphantly, "doze huh'icane nefer hu't us."
For a moment Mrs. March had forgotten the rolling vessel and the threatening sea. "The little tyke!" she said to herself, smilingly; but her daughter spoke aloud.
"Why do you make such a beautiful picture of it?" she asked. "Don't you know that I must go back to the cold and the snow?"