"Oh, you have heard about it, have you?" answered I. "Well, I don't see why the squire can't afford to worry a little about it, I'm sure. And I'm certain he does; anybody with any heart in them would." I said it bitterly, but I did not anger mother.
"Well, there, Margaret," she said, abruptly, "you know I never did like the young man, and I can't pretend to break my heart over this. I'm sorry he's come to harm, of course, but I can't help feeling glad Joyce takes it as she does. We can't expect her to forget all at once, but please God she will forget, and things perhaps be even as I hoped for."
"I can't think how you can suppose it would please God your daughter should be a fickle, shallow-hearted creature, I'm sure," said I, hotly.
"You and I never were of one mind over that matter, were we?" smiled mother, quite good-temperedly. "But the day'll come when perhaps you'll say I was right. You're but a child yet; you know nothing about such things saving what you've got out of books, and that ain't much like it. Perhaps you may come to know what it is yourself one day, and then you'll tell the difference between the real stuff and the make-believe."
A child! Was my waywardness, my impetuosity, my passionate longing only childishness? Now that I am a woman, I wonder whether mother was partly right in her simple intuition? Only partly: I did know something about "such things."
"I don't believe Joyce hasn't taken it to heart," said I, doggedly.
"Well, her eyes aren't so heavy as yours by a long way," answered mother. "I don't know what's come to you of late. You used not to be mopy. Nobody could say it of you whatever else they might say. You had your tantrums, and you always have been a dreadful one for wearing out your clothes, but mopy you were not. But I'm sure you fret more over this business than Joyce herself does. I've no patience with you. As for any work you do for me, I'd as soon have your room as your company. I like to see a body put her heart into whatever comes to hand, if it's only boiling a potato. You take my word for it, my girl, it's the only way to be happy."
The tears came into my eyes, for I knew very well that mother was right. I turned away that she should not see them, for I was ashamed of tears, but she did see them nevertheless.
"There, there," she added, kindly; "I don't want to rate you. Be a good girl, and look more like yourself again. Half-hearted ways won't bring anybody on; and as for your complexion, well, you used to have a skin that I could boast of. 'Red hair she may have,' I used to say, 'but look at her skin.' And now it's no better than curds and whey. Come, get the muslin and strain off that jelly."