School was in session, and Ivory and Rod had their textbooks of
an evening, but oh! what a new and strange joy to study when
there was a sweet woman sitting near with her workbasket; a woman
wearing a shining braid of hair as if it were a coronet; a woman
of clear eyes and tender lips, one who could feel as well as
think, one who could be a man's comrade as well as his dear love.
Truly the second heaven, the one on "this side of the stars, by
men called home," was very present over at Boyntons'.
Sometimes the broad-seated old haircloth sofa would be drawn in
front of the fire, and Ivory, laying his pipe and his Greek
grammar on the
table, would take some lighter book and open it on his knee.
Waitstill would lift her eyes from her sewing to meet her
husband's glance that
spoke longing for her closer companionship, and gladly leaving
her work, and slipping into the place by his side, she would put
her elbow on his shoulder and read with him.
Once, Rod, from his place at a table on the other side of the
room, looked and looked at them with a kind of instinct beyond
his years, and finally crept up to Waitstill, and putting an arm
through hers, nestled his curly head on her shoulder with the
quaint charm and grace that belonged to him.
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