“If we get through the summer without quarrels over the war it will be a miracle!” she exclaimed to her husband.

But she found that the poor creatures were too weary, too sad, too physically crushed to have spirit enough left to fight any battles, even those of words.  With almost every one of them there had been a tragedy such as often comes to the immigrants who 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 workmanship; imitate it, my child!”