"Well, I was surprised myself when I realized it. But the next year my cousins all moved away, and I've thought of it over and over, but I haven't been. I dare say if we'd lived in the same town we'd have gone together before this, but we haven't, and there it is."
"That's thirty-five years ago, Mary," said Lucy Eastman, thoughtfully.
"Thirty-five years! I declare, it still makes me jump to hear about thirty-five years—just as if I hadn't known all about 'em!" and Mary Leonard laughed her comfortable laugh again. "You don't say it's thirty-five years, Lucy! I guess you're right, though."
There was a moment's pause, and the laugh died away into a little sigh.
"We didn't think then—we didn't really think—we'd ever be talking about what happened thirty-five years ago, did we, Lucy? We didn't think we'd have interest enough to care."
"No," said Lucy, soberly, "we didn't."
"And I care just as much as I ever did about things," went on the other, thoughtfully, "only there seem more doors for satisfaction to come in at nowadays. It isn't quite the same sort of satisfaction, perhaps, that it used to be, not so pressed down and running over, but there's more of it, after all, and it doesn't slip out so easily."
"No, the bottom of things doesn't fall out at once, as it used to, and leave nothing in our empty hands."
"That sounds almost sad. Don't you be melancholy, Lucy Eastman."
"I'm not, Mary—I'm not a bit. I'm only remembering that I used to be."