“Nothing, but I am tired and everything is so dirty. Look at the cobwebs! Look at the dust on the books! Look at me! I am an old frowsy, untidy frump.”
“You! Why, honey, you are always lovely. As for dust—don’t bother about that. Let me read you this wonderful little poem by Gertrude Hall. I clipped it years ago.”
Professor Green saw that Molly was tired and unstrung and he well knew that nothing soothed her more than poetry. Of course, man-like, he had no idea that what he had said about Alice Fern’s looking so sweet had been too much for her, as she had contrasted herself all the afternoon with her husband’s immaculate cousin. Molly wiped away the foolish tears as Edwin read the poem.
“THE DUST.
By Gertrude Hall.
It settles softly on your things,
Impalpable, fine, light, dull, gray;
The dingy dust-clout Betty brings,
And, singing, brushes it away:
And it’s a queen’s robe, once so proud,
And it’s the moths fed in its fold,
It’s leaves, and roses, and the shroud,
Wherein an ancient Saint was rolled.
And it is beauty’s golden hair,
And it is genius’ wreath of bay,
And it is lips once red and fair
That kissed in some forgotten May.”
“It is lovely, exquisite!” breathed Molly. “I don’t feel nearly so bad about it as I did.”
But she did wish that Alice Fern had not seen that black, black cobweb.