"Why, my Dear, as I am no longer young, I see Things in a different Light."
"It may not be a truer Light, though, Mrs. Honeywood, and you can't expect young Folks to see Things differently from what you yourself did when you were young. Tut, tut! let the Girl go, and say no more about it."
"But, Mr. Honeywood...."
"But, Madam!" (very loud and angry,) "haven't I said it should be so, and have I a Right to be minded?"
Here my Mother turned pale and trembled, which I never could bear to see; and I was going to urge Prue and Tom, in a low Voice, to give up their Treat rather than foment a Family Quarrel, when I was called into the Shop, which prevented my knowing how the Matter ended. Presently Tom went through the Shop, out of the House; and the next Time I could look into the Parlour, it was empty.
Prue, however, was singing about the House, so I argued that Peace had been restored somehow; most likely by her giving up the Play. By-and-by she comes in all Smiles, and says, "I'll take up Mr. Fenwick's Chocolate," and, before I could say a Word, took the little Tray out of my Hand and was off with it.
I had forgotten all about this, when, some Time after, happening to go up Stairs for my Knotting-Bag, in passing the open Door of Mr. Fenwick's Sitting-Room, I saw him and Prue standing at the Window, their Backs towards me, in earnest Conversation; he holding her by the Hand, and she apparently in Tears. This gave me the oddest Feeling I ever had in my Life—I went up into my Room, sat down on the first Chair I came to, and could hardly turn my Breath. I could not think what had come over me! Presently I got up and tried to drink some cold Water, but could hardly get it down. It seemed to me as if I could not think; and yet there was a great, dull, dark, unwelcome Thought in my Head all the while!
I leant my Head against the Wall; and having quieted myself a little, rose to go down Stairs. Just then, Prue came in, and looked as if she had hoped to find the Room unoccupied. I said, "You've been crying, Prue!" She said, sharply, "No, I haven't!—and what if I had?"—I said, "Only that I should have been sorry to know that you were in Sorrow." She said, "Tears are shed for Joy, sometimes, as well as Sorrow, are not they?" "Certainly," said I; and turned away. "What could make you think I had been crying, Patty?" says she hurriedly. "Well," I said, "I thought you might be vexed about the Play."—"The Play? oh, that was given up before Tom went out," said she—"Of course it did vex me, and I think it was unkind of my Mother not to let me go." "You know her Motives are always kind," said I. "Well, of course I do," says she, still crossly, "but don't harp any more on such a disagreeable Subject. If you do, I shall run away from you." And away she ran.
Then it was not the Play; then it was not about Anything connected with Tom, that had made her cry! I'd thought as much! "Tears are shed for Joy as well as for Sorrow," sometimes, though not very often. I sat down again, and turned my Face to the Wall, with my Head resting against it, and cried bitterly. Mine were Tears of Sorrow, not of Joy!