"That is, not entirely," qualified Faith. "Our mother was English--"
"But our father's American!" Hope finished the sentence with a
triumphant air, and her visitor laughed.
"You seem proud of it, too," she said.
"I am. Faith does not care so much, but I'm very glad it is so. We
went across with father and Debby once, and stayed a year. It was such
a pleasant time! Father's people live in an old town they call
Lynn--such a pretty, shady place, with a drowsy air that wakes into
real life two or three times a day, when the factory people stream
through the streets--for you see they make shoes there."
"Do they?" asked the lady with a peculiar smile, as if this were not
great news to her.
"Yes. Uncle Albert's house, where we lived, was almost hidden beneath
great elm trees, and he and Aunt Clarice were so good to us."
"And we kept bees," put in Faith, looking exactly like her twin in her
sudden animation. "I used to help uncle swarm them myself."
"And we went down to Boston every few weeks," Hope crowded in again,
"and that was fine. I love Boston. Its narrow, crooked streets make
me think of our own Portsmouth, here, but with a difference. And oh!
the gardens, and the Common, and the Museum--"
"The cab's at the dure," announced Debby in an abused voice, feeling
that this lively talk was scarce seemly in view of the near separation
to follow. Debby cherished grief, and felt it a Christian duty to make
much of it, perhaps because her sunny nature would of itself throw it
off too lightly.
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