He shook his head.
"No? Thou art hard to please," she said. "Well, I shall give them up—thy pensées. They must have been freaked with jet; for how serious thou art!"
"What is that—freaked with jet?"
She laughed merrily. "Oh, what ignorance! That is Milton, Monsieur—'Lycidas.'" She was gently proud of superior learning.
"Ah, I must ask Mr. Schmidt of it. I have much to learn."
"I would," and her hands went on with their industry of selecting the more brilliantly colored leaves. "I have given thee something to think of. Tell me, now, what were the thoughts of jet in thy pensées—the dark thoughts."
"I cannot tell thee. Some day thou wilt know, and that may be too soon, too soon"; for he thought: "If I kill that man, what will they think of revenge, of the guilt of blood, these gentle Quaker people?" Aloud he said: "You cannot think these thoughts of mine, and I am glad you cannot."
He was startled as she returned quickly, without looking up from her work: "How dost thou know what I think? It is something that will happen," and, the white hands moving with needless quickness among the gaily tinted leaves, she added: "I do not like change, or new things, or mysteries. Does Madame, thy mother, think to leave us? My mother would miss her."
"And you? Would not you a little?"
"Yes, of course; and so would friend Schmidt. There, my basket will hold no more. How pretty they are! But thou hast not answered me."