"Most of us have to hear things that are painful, more or less often in our lives—and change is almost always painful to natures like yours, Missy."
"Oh, as to that, sometimes I have felt, lately, that change would be more acceptable than anything. So don't be afraid. Perhaps you will find it will be good news, after all."
"I earnestly wish so. Of this I am confident, one day you will feel it was what was best, whether it gave you pain or not at first."
"Proceed, mamma, proceed! If there is anything that rasps my nerves it is to see the knife gleaming about in the folds of your dress, while I see you are trying to hide it, and I am doubtful which part of me is doomed to the stroke. Anything but suspense. What is it, who is it this time? We don't slay the slain, so it can't be St. John. You are not going to ask me to mourn him again?"
"No, Missy, and I am not going to ask you to mourn at all."
"Oh, excuse me. But you know I will mourn, being so blinded and carnal. Mamma, let me have it in plain English. What sacrifice am I to be called upon to make now? Is it you, or my home, or what?"
"Both, my child, if you will put it so—I cannot make it easy."
Missy started to her feet, and stood very pale beside her mother's sofa.
"You have shown so little sympathy with St. John's plans, that I have been unable to ask you to share in their discussion, as day after day they have matured. You know the house belongs to him, he has given up all—you can see what it involves."
"I see, and his mother is to be turned out of house and home, to satisfy his ultra piety."