“I, too, am afraid of the new, Hugh,” she said, a little tremulously. “We all grow so, as age comes on.”
“But you are not old, mother,” I protested.
“I have a feeling, since your father has gone, that I have lived my life, my dear, though I'd like to stay long enough to see you happily married—to have grandchildren. I was not young when you were born.” And she added, after a little while, “I know nothing about business affairs, and now—now that your father is no longer here, sometimes I'm afraid—”
“Afraid of what, mother?”
She tried to smile at me through her tears. We were in the old sitting-room, surrounded by the books.
“I know it's foolish, and it isn't that I don't trust you. I know that the son of your father couldn't do anything that was not honourable. And yet I am afraid of what the world is becoming. The city is growing so fast, and so many new people are coming in. Things are not the same. Robert is right, there. And I have heard your father say the same thing. Hugh, promise me that you will try to remember always what he was, and what he would wish you to be!”
“I will, mother,” I answered. “But I think you would find that Cousin Robert exaggerates a little, makes things seem worse than they really are. Customs change, you know. And politics were never well—Sunday schools.” I, too, smiled a little. “Father knew that. And he would never take an active part in them.”
“He was too fine!” she exclaimed.
“And now,” I continued, “Cousin Robert has happened to come in contact with them through business. That is what has made the difference in him. Before, he always knew they were corrupt, but he rarely thought about them.”
“Hugh,” she said suddenly, after a pause, “you must remember one thing,—that you can afford to be independent. I thank God that your father has provided for that!”