reach the United
States equipped for success only with strong muscles--a tragedy of
wasted hope and broken courage and failing vigor if not of death. Mrs.
Paterno was the only one of them who could sympathize with Moya's
widowhood; her husband had seen the Black Hand death sign a few months
before, had disregarded it and had been stabbed in the back one night
as he came home from his work.

Conversation was not carried on fluently among them. They met on the
common ground of English, but not one of them could speak it well, each
one translated phrases of her own tongue quite literally, and the
meaning of the whole talk was largely a matter of guesswork. What they
did understand was nature's language of motherhood. They were content
to sit for hours on the veranda or in the grove or behind the house,
preparing vegetables for Moya, chattering about their babies and
explaining their meaning by gestures that seemed to be perfectly
understood.

The women had daily duties to perform according to a schedule worked
out by Mrs. Schuler, who apportioned to each a share of the general
work of the house in addition to the care of her own room and the
washing for herself and her children. With so many fingers flying the
tasks were soon done, and then they sat on the porch or in the grove
among the sweet-smelling pines, or walked in the pasture or up and down
the lane leading to the main road. Once in a while they went to
Rosemont, but for the most part they were too languid to care to walk
far and too glad of the change and the rest and quiet to want to weary
themselves unnecessarily.

The boys had built a platform across the back of the house, and it was
here that they did their carpentry, an awning sheltering them from the
sun or rain. A cupboard at one end held their tools, and their partly
finished articles were neatly stacked in a corner. As they got out
their tools now James made a confession.

"To tell you the honest, unvarnished truth, I'm tired of making chairs.
It seems as if we'd never have enough."

"It takes an awful lot to furnish a house," commented Roger wisely,
"and you know we had very few given us so if we want enough we have to
make them."

"We've got all the chairs you've done upholstered all they're going to
be," said Ethel Brown. "Why can't Ethel Blue and I each make a high
chair?"

"No reason at all," agreed Roger quickly. "You've watched James and me
and seen our really superior workmans