Perhaps, while the horses stood champing their bits and the coachman and footman stifled yawns of ennui, Mrs. Thompson extracted from the wide view a warm and comfortable sensation of happiness and pride. She was quite happy, with every fierce passion burnt out, with the disturbing energy of the emotions nearly all gone; but with the full and satisfying work still left to her, and the zest for the work growing always keener, keeping her young of spirit, defying the years. And she was proud—very proud in her undiminished power of protecting those she loved. She had never failed to protect. Her mother,—her dull old husband,—her daughter,—her daughter's daughter: all who had touched the orbit of her strength with love had found security. And she had been able to break as well as to make. All who had served her were guarded and safe: all who had opposed her were crushed and done for.
"Shall I drive on, ma'am?"
"Yes, drive on."
The coachman and footman in their black liveries and white gloves had a grand air; the bay horses were large highly-bred beasts; the carriage was one of those four-seated victorias which are much affected by royal persons—the whole equipage offered a majestic appearance. If the route of the excursion led them by the avenues of new villas and through some of the crowded streets of the town, Mrs. Thompson's weekly outing became exactly like a queen's procession.
Hats off on either side; continuous bowing to right and left; men and women staring from open doors, running to upper windows, bumping into one another on the pavement.
"Who is it?"
"Mrs. Thompson."
"Oh!"
"What is it? I couldn't see. Was it the fire-engine?"