XXI.
Mrs. Hilary was a large woman, of portly frame, the prophecy in amplitude of what her son might come to be if he did not carry the activities of youth into his later life. She, for her part, was long past such activities; and yet she was not a woman to let the grass grow upon any path she had taken. She appointed the afternoon of the day following her talk with Matt for leaving the farm and going to the shore; Louise was to go with her, and upon the whole she judged it best to tell her why, when the girl came to say good-night, and to announce that her packing was finished.
"But what in the world are we in such a hurry for, mamma, all of a sudden?"
"We are in a hurry because—don't you really know, Louise?—because in the crazy atmosphere of this house, one loses the sense of—of proportion—of differences."
"Aren't you rather—Emersonian, mamma?"
"Do you think so, my dear? Matt's queer notions infect everybody; I don't blame you, particularly; and the simple life he makes people lead—by leading it himself, more than anything else—makes you think that you could keep on living just as simply if you wished, everywhere."
"It's very sweet—it's so restful," sighed the girl. "It makes you sick of dinners and ashamed of dances."
"But you must go back to them; you must go back to the world you belong to; and you'd better not carry any queer habits back with you."
"You are rather sphinx-like, mamma! Such habits, for instance, as?"