Page:Emily of New Moon by L. M. Montgomery.pdf/360

 Have you ever the chilly calm on the brow of the dead, Emily?”

“Yes,” said Emily softly, recalling that grey dawn in the old house in the hollow.

“I thought so—otherwise you couldn’t have written —and even as it is—how old are you, jade?”

“Thirteen, last May.”

“Humph! —you should study the art of titles, Emily—there’s a fashion in them as in everything else. Your titles are as out of date as the candles of New Moon—

The rest isn’t worth reading. —is there a month you’ve missed?—‘Windy meadows harvest-deep’—good line. —gossamer, Emily, nothing but gossamer. —

Good line—I suppose New Moon full of ghosts. ‘Death’s fell minion well fulfilled its part’—that might have passed in Addison’s day but not now—not now, Emily—

Atrocious, girl—atrocious. Graves aren’t playgrounds. How much would play if you were buried?”

Emily writhed and blushed again. couldn’t she have seen that herself? goose could have seen it.