Happy Muses
"Look at the Muses," said Rosemary, after a silence. "Do you think they've gone to sleep?"
The nine slender birches, that had apparently paused in their flight down the hillside, were, indeed, very still. Not a twig stirred, and the white trunks were ghostly in the twilight. Seemingly they leaned toward each other for protection and support; for comfort in the loneliness of the night.
"Happy Muses," he responded. "No vineyard to look after and no school to teach."
"And no Grandmother," continued Rosemary, "and no Aunt. Nor any dishes or brooms or scrubbing-brushes, or stoves that are possessed by evil spirits."
Star-like, a single light appeared in the front window of the big white house on the shore of the river. It was answered almost immediately by another, far across the stream.
"I like to watch the lights," the girl went on. "The first one is always in your house."
"Yes, I know. Mother dislikes twilight."
"Ours is the last—on account of the price of oil."
"Here," he said. "I almost forgot your book. And I brought you two candles this time. You mustn't read by the light of one—you'll spoil your eyes."