All families have their little Sunday habits, I have found; the Sunday rule in this house was, to have tea at half-past six, and to walk by the river till after the sun had set; then to come home and have sacred music in the parlor. After tea, accordingly, we took our shawls on our arms (it still being very warm) and walked down toward the river.
I kept beside Mrs. Hollenbeck and Benny, where only I felt safe.
The criticism I had heard had given me such a shock, I did not feel that I ever could be careful enough of what I said and did. And I vaguely felt my mother's honor would be vindicated, if I showed myself always a modest and prudent woman.
"It was so well that I heard them," I kept saying to myself, but I felt so much older and so much graver. My silence and constraint were no doubt differently interpreted. Richard did not come up to me, except to tell me I had better put my shawl on, as I sat on the steps of the boat-house, with Benny beside me. The others had walked further on and were sitting, some of them on the rocks, and some on the boat that had been drawn up, watching the sun go down.
"Tell me a story," said Benny, resting his arms on my lap, "a story about when you were a little girl."
"Oh, Benny, that wouldn't make a pretty story."
"Oh, yes, it would: all about your mamma and the house you used to live in, and the children you used to go to see."
"Dear Benny! I never lived in but one old, dismal house. I never went to play with any children. I could not make a story out of that."
"But your mamma. O yes, I'm sure you could if you tried very hard."
"Ah, Benny! that's the worst of all. For my mamma has been with God and the good angels in the sky, ever since I was a little baby, and I have had a dreary time without her here alone."