[Mrs. Grey enters from without.]
Mrs. G. Do not sing, Annie.
Annie. Crying would better befit the times, I know,—Dear mother, what is this?
Mrs. G. Hush,—asleep—is she?
Annie. This hour, and quiet as an infant. Need enough there was of it too. See, what a perfect damask mother!
Mrs. G. Draw the curtain on that sunshine there. This sleep has flushed her. Ay, a painter might have dropped that golden hair,—yet this delicate beauty is but the martyr's wreath now, with its fine nerve and shrinking helplessness. No, Annie; put away your hat, my love,—you cannot go to the lodge to-night.
Annie. Mother?
Mrs. G. You cannot go to the glen to-night. This is no time for idle pleasure, God knows.
Annie. Why, you have been weeping in earnest, and your cheek is pale.—And now I know where that sad appointment led you. Is it over? That it should be in our humanity to bear, what in our ease we cannot, cannot think of!
Mrs. G. Harder things for humanity are there than bodily anguish, sharp though it be. It was not the boy,—the mother's anguish, I wept for, Annie.