"Yes, yes, that was it."
"'—but it withereth the grass, and the flower thereof falleth, and the grace of the fashion of it perisheth.'"
"That was it," assented Diana.
"So he preached about the shortness of life?"
"No, not at all. He began with those words, and just a sentence or two—and it was beautiful, too, mother—explaining them; and then he said the Bible hadn't much in it directly speaking of our fashions; he would give us what there was, and let us make what we could of it; so he did."
"You can make a good deal of it if you try," said Mrs. Bartlett. "And then, dear?"
"Then he went off, you'd never think where—to the last chapter of Proverbs; and he described the woman described there; and he made her out so beautiful and good and clever and wise, that somehow, without saying a word about fashion, he made us feel how she would never have had any concern about it; how she was above it, and five times more beautiful without, than she would have been with, the foolish ways of people now-a-days. But he didn't say that; you only felt it. I don't much believe there are any such women, mother."
"I hope and believe you'll make just such a one, Diana."
"I?" said the girl, with a curious intonation; then subsiding again immediately, she sat as she had sat at her own door a year ago, with arms folded, gazing out upon the summery hill pasture where the cows were leisurely feeding. But now her eyes had a steady, hard look, not busy with the sunshiny turf or the deep blue sky against which the line of the hill cut so soft and clear. Then the vision had been all outward.
"And that was his sermon?" said the old lady with a dash of disappointment.