Annie Kilburn

inite to call them home. Toward the last Miss Kilburn tacitly gave up the expectation of getting her father away, though they both continued to say that they were going to take passage as soon as the

receive the sacrifice. He had married late, and in her thirty-first year he was seventy-eight; but the disparity of their ages, increasing toward the end through his infirmities, had not loosened for her the ties of custom and affection that bound them; she had seen him grow more and more fitfully cognisant of what they had been to ea

e! You've lived in this apartment longer now than the oldest inhabitant has lived in most Am

fter father gave up practice. I think we shall go back to the old home

with the sharpness which people believe

sachusetts-you wouldn't know

old lady, with superiority. "Why Hat

ld name was Dorchester Farms. Father fought the change, but it was of no use; the people wouldn't have it Farms after the place

ery Ame

have Boxboro' too, you

id the old lady, trying to present the idea in the s

nge, but not so much of a change as you wou

ee. Don't do it! If it wasn't wise, don't you suppose that the last thing h

les, where her complexion was clearest; the bold contour of her face, with its decided chin and the rather large salient nose, was like her father's; it was this, probably, that gave an impression of strength, with a wistful qualification. She was

At this moment I would rather

elf up as one does from throwing away one's sympat

nger when I get there, and there's no comparison in congeniality; and yet I feel that I must go back. I can't tell you why. But I have a longing; I feel that I must try to be of some use in the world-try to do some good-and in

hen there were no more to be said by a sensible person. "And shall you be going soon?"

aning from the mood in which they are spoken: Miss Kilburn had a sense of hurrying her visitor away, and the old l