"Look at our minister's wife," she said; "she's meant for it. It's true she looks half starved, and she's always dowdy, and has to make a dress do for years—but she's happy in that kind of life."
"Maybe I'll be happy too," I ventured to predict.
"How could you be?" retorted my mother. "How could you ever hope to be, when you're not fitted for that kind of work? Mrs. Furvell can lead in prayer."
"Well, I can't," I said—"but I can follow. And Mr. Laird says that's better."
"And she can take the chair at meetings—and she knows how to talk to ministers when they come—and they say she looks over her husband's sermons, and makes suggestions."
"My husband's sermons won't need any," I made reply. And at this I blushed furiously: the word sounded like a beautiful judgment day. I knew how crimson my face and neck all grew, for I was standing in front of a pier glass at the time, my hair flowing down about my shoulders. And I wondered if I was beautiful—I hoped I was, but not for my own sake at all—I can honestly say no vanity was in my thought. Everything was different now.
"Of course," conceded my mother, "I believe in a girl marrying for love—but you haven't known him long enough. Now Charlie's different; you've known him so long."
"That's just where it comes in," said I, dimly groping for what I felt was a great point.
"What do you mean?" said mother.
"I don't know," I answered, which was gloriously true.