As the old mother sits there so quiet in her corner, her body worn to a silver thread, and hardly anything left of her but her indomitable eyes; it is hard, at least for a young thing of nineteen, all aflush and aflurry with her new party gown, to realise that that old mother is infinitely more romantic than herself. She has sat there so long, perhaps, as to have come to seem part of the inanimate furniture of home, rather than a living being. Well! the young thing goes to her party, and dances with some callow youth who pays her clumsy compliments, and Margaret remains at home with the old mother in her corner. It is hard on Margaret! Yes; and yet, as I have said, it is thus she comes to know her old mother better than any one else knows her--society perhaps not so poor an exchange for that of smart, immature young men of one’s own age.
As the door closes behind the important rustle of youthful laces, and Margaret and her mother are left alone, the mother’s old eyes light up with an almost mischievous smile. If age seems humorous to youth, youth is even more humorous to age.
“It is evidently a great occasion, Peg,” the old voice says, with the suspicion of a gentle mockery. “Don’t you wish you were going?”
“You naughty old mother!” answers Margaret, going over and kissing her.
“Well, shall we go on with our book?” says the mother, after a while.
“Yes, dear, in a moment. I have first to get you your diet, and then we can begin.”
“Bother the diet!” says the courageous old lady; “for two pins I’d go to the ball myself. That old taffeta silk of mine is old enough to be in fashion again. What do you say, Peg, if you and I go to the ball together?”
“O it’s too much trouble dressing, mother. What do you think?”
“Well, I suppose it is,” answers the mother. “Besides, I want to hear what happens next to those two beautiful young people in our book. So be quick with my old diet, and come and read.”
There is perhaps nothing so lovely, or so well worth having, as the gratitude of the old towards the young that care to give them more than the perfunctory ministrations to which they have long since grown sadly accustomed. There was no reward in the world that Margaret would have exchanged for the sweet looks of her old mother, who, being no merely selfish invalid, knew the value and the cost of the devotion her daughter was giving her.