“Do not call me child, mother. All the beauty and bloom of childhood, all its happy hopes and trustful spirit, have gone forever. There are some who are children all their lives. But I—it seems a great while since I was a child.”
The simple old lady did not comprehend her daughter’s meaning. She understood her words literally.
“Why, you are young yet, Margaret.”
“Young! don’t call me young, mother. I am older than you.”
“Older than I?” said the old lady, who fancied Margaret’s brain a little disordered, and sought to restore it by reasoning; “but you know a child cannot be older than its mother. You are but thirty-seven, while I am seventy.”
“I don’t mean older in years, mother. Older in suffering, older in the experience of life. It isn’t years that make us old, mother, but our own passions.”
This was uttered half in soliloquy.
“I am afraid you will hurt yourself by talking, Margaret. You had better go to sleep; or would you like some gruel?”
“No, mother.”
There was silence for a few minutes. During this time Margaret was scanning attentively the little room and its furniture. Nothing could be plainer, and yet more comfortable. There was a rag carpet on the floor, and a few plain articles of furniture scattered about the room; there was a small clock on the mantel, whose drowsy ticking could be distinctly heard, so free was the neighborhood from noises of every description. It was such a retreat as the old would like for its quiet, while they would not be troubled by its monotony and lack of excitement. But Margaret was too impetuous and excitable to feel it otherwise than oppressive.