As the door closes behind the important rustle of youthful laces, and Margaret and her mother are left alone, the mother’s old eyes light up with an almost mischievous smile. If age seems humorous to youth, youth is even more humorous to age.
“It is evidently a great occasion, Peg,” the old voice says, with the suspicion of a gentle mockery. “Don’t you wish you were going?”
“You naughty old mother!” answers Margaret, going over and kissing her.
The two understand each other.
“Well, shall we go on with our book?” says the mother, after a while.
“Yes, dear, in a moment. I have first to get you your diet, and then we can begin.”
“Bother the diet!” says the courageous old lady; “for two pins I’d go to the ball myself. That old taffeta silk of mine is old enough to be in fashion again. What do you say, Peg, if you and I go to the ball together?”
“O it’s too much trouble dressing, mother. What do you think?”
“Well, I suppose it is,” answers the mother. “Besides, I want to hear what happens next to those two beautiful young people in our book. So be quick with my old diet, and come and read.”
There is perhaps nothing so lovely, or so well worth having, as the gratitude of the old towards the young that care to give them more than the perfunctory ministrations to which they have long since grown sadly accustomed. There was no reward in the world that Margaret would have exchanged for the sweet looks of her old mother, who, being no merely selfish invalid, knew the value and the cost of the devotion her daughter was giving her.