Another feeling mingled with that of joy. She could not look at Margaret's changed face without pain and remorse, and an ever-present wish that she had not left her to herself. She thought that a selfish feeling on her own part had induced her to countenance Adam Livesey's addresses to pretty Maggie, and that the girl had never crossed her in any serious matter since she knew the difference between right and wrong, added to her own mental discomfort. Often did she draw Margaret's thin face down to hers, and whisper, "You don't feel vexed at your mother, do you, my dear?"
And the younger woman would smooth her pillow, and kiss her, denying stoutly the while that she was the least bit vexed about what had passed.
"You did it for the best, mother. It was no wonder you went away, for you never had any peace, what with me and the children. We were always at you, one or other of us; and when folks are getting on in years they can't stand things like young ones."
"I was not so very old then, Margaret, and I'm not to call a real aged woman now. Only just turned sixty-five. You see the being quiet and comfortable don't make folks live any longer."
"Maybe you'll get better yet," said Mrs. Livesey. "I'm sure I wish you may be spared for many a year to come. Why, for all you are so poorly, and have been a fortnight in bed, your face is fuller than mine, and you've more colour in it. Why, I expect if I go on as I'm doing till I'm sixty-five, I shall look a hundred years old at the least."
Margaret was giving her mother the best consolation she knew how to offer. Was not the hope of getting well again the only thing likely to cheer an invalid?
It would have been to herself, for life, with all its troubles, must, she thought, be better than death.
"You look sadly too old, my poor lass," said the sick woman. "No wonder, borne down as you've been. But I hope you will grow younger again yet."
"That would be going t'other way about from what one expects, mother. But don't you fret over spilt milk. I've had hard work, no mistake about that, and little to do with. Still, if you could ha' looked into our bit of a place as I left it, you would ha' said there wasn't a dirty corner. The children, poor things, haven't many clothes, but they've a change apiece of under things, and no holes or rags. Then, whether we've little or much, we pay as we go on. You taught me that lesson, mother; so we are never afraid, let who may knock at the door."
"You must ha' done wonders with such little wages."