was too polite to say anything, but I could see that she thought the same. Mamma was quite put about with Geoff’s new notions.”
“I must say that it seems rather impertinent and forth-putting for a new nation like that to be setting up opinions of its own, and finding fault with the good old English customs,” said Imogen, petulantly.
“Well, I don’t know,” replied Isabel; “we have made some changes ourselves. John of Gaunt or Harry Hotspur might find fault with us for the same reason, giving up the ‘good old customs’ of rushes on the floor, for instance, and flagons of ale for breakfast. There were the stocks and the pillory too, and hanging for theft, and the torture of prisoners. Those were all in use more or less when the Pilgrims went to America, and I’m sure we’re all glad that they were given up. The world must move, and I suppose it’s but natural that the new nations should give it its impulse.”
“England is good enough for me,” replied the practical Imogen. “I don’t want to be instructed by new countries. It’s like a child in a pinafore trying to teach its grandmother how to do things. Now, dear Isabel, let me hear about your mother’s parcels.”
Mrs. Templestowe had wisely put her gifts into small compass. There were two dainty little frocks for her grandson, and a jacket of her own knitting, two pairs of knickerbocker stockings for Geoff, and for Clover a bit of old silver which had belonged to a Templestowe in the time of the Tudors,—a double-handled porringer with a coat of arms engraved on its somewhat dented sides. Clover, like most Americans, had a passion for the antique; so this present was sure to please.
“And you are really off to-morrow,” said Isabel at the gate. “How I wish I were going too.”
“And how I wish I were not going at all, but staying on with you,” responded Imogen. “Mother says if Lionel isn’t married by the end of three years she’ll send Beatrice out to take my place. She’ll be turned twenty then, and would like to come. Isabel, you’ll be married before I get back, I know you will.”
“It’s most improbable. Girls don’t marry in England half so easily as in America. It will be you who will marry, and settle over there permanently.”
“Never!” cried Imogen.
Then the two friends exchanged a last kiss and parted.
“My love to Clover,” Isabel called back.
“Always Clover,” thought Imogen; but she smiled, and answered, “Yes.”
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