As I read of the absorbed silence and the changing expressions of the
crowd about the old man, I was suddenly reminded of a company of people I
had recently seen. They were gathered in one of the parlours of a women's
college, and their serious young faces had, habitually, none of the
childlike responsiveness of the Italian populace; they were suggestive,
rather, of a daily experience which precluded over-much surprise or
curiosity about anything. In the midst of the group stood a frail-looking
woman with bright eyes. She was telling a story, a children's story, about
a good and a bad little mouse.
She had been asked to do that thing, for a purpose, and she did it,
therefore. But it was easy to see from the expressions of the listeners
how trivial a thing it seemed to them.
That was at first. But presently the room grew quieter; and yet quieter.
The faces relaxed into amused smiles, sobered in unconscious sympathy,
finally broke in ripples of mirth. The story-teller had come to her own.
The memory of the college girls listening to the mouse-story brought other
memories with it. Many a swift composite view of faces passed before my
mental vision, faces with the child's look on them, yet not the faces of
children. And of the occasions to which the faces belonged, those were
most vivid which were earliest in my experience.
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