“Me, too,” owned Honoré. “I never know what it is before. I not mind de fighting, but I am glad de war is end', account of de 'omesick!”
He pushed the hair from her wet face. The fate of temperament and the deep tides of existence had them in merciless sweep.
“Clethera,” represented Honoré, “the rillation is not mix' bad with Jules and Melinda.”
Clethera let the assertion pass unchallenged.
“And this house, it pretty good house. You like it well as de hudder?”
“It have no loft,” responded Clethera, faintly, “but de chimney not smoke.”
“We not want de 'omesick some more, Clethera—eh? You t'ink de fools is all marry yet?”
Clethera laughed and raised her head from his arm, but not to look at him or box his ear. She looked through the open door at an oblong of little world, where the land was an amethyst strip betwixt lake and horizon. Across that beloved background she saw the future pass: hale, long years with Honoré; the piled up wood of winter fires; her own home; her children—the whole scheme of sweet and humble living.
“You t'ink, after all de folly we have see' in de family, Clethera, you can go de lenk—to get marry?”
“I go dat lenk for you, Honoré—but not for any hudder man.”