It was a happy time in the little house: the cloud descended sometimes on the captain, but more rarely and briefly. There were long evenings when Zwinglius rolled out to gather news at Laurel's; when age and youth sat together trading confidences, slowly, with many intervals; when the clock ticked, the Northern Spies roasted sputtering between the andirons, the wood fire purred for snow, or a frosty nail started like a pistol shot in the night.
"And now why," Joyce questioned, as if their talk had not faltered, "why do they seem to think young people are always happy, and all that? I think we 're more perplexed and troubled than older ones, and selfish— Yes, I do—and—and often cruel."
"Oh, that's all right," declared the captain, nodding wisely, as if to dismiss a trifle. "Ye must enjoy yourself while you 're young. 'T ain't right not to. And then when ye git to be old—well, the' 's lots o' nice things about bein' old, too. Lots. Only fault I got to find with it is that things won't stop a while for ye—only a—sort o'—breathin' spell
