"It was one of the first places where they began to make straw hats; it was
a nickname at first, and then they adopted it. The old name was Dorchester
Farms. Father fought the change, but it was of no use; the people wouldn't
have it Farms after the place began to grow; and by that time they had got
used to Hatboro'. Besides, I don't see how it's any worse than Hatfield, in
England."
"It's very American."
"Oh, it's American. We have Boxboro' too, you know, in Massachusetts."
"And you are going from Rome to Hatboro', Mass.," said the old lady, trying
to present the idea in the strongest light by abbreviating the name of the
State.
"Yes," said Miss Kilburn. "It will be a change, but not so much of a change
as you would think. It was father's wish to go back."
"Ah, my _dear_!" cried the old lady. "You're letting that weigh with
you, I see. Don't do it! If it wasn't wise, don't you suppose that the last
thing he could wish you to do would be to sacrifice yourself to a sick whim
of his?"
The kindness expressed in the words touched Annie Kilburn. She had a
certain beauty of feature; she was near-sighted; but her eyes were brown
and soft, her lips red and full; her dark hair grew low, and played in
little wisps and rings on her temples, 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 that time
rather thin, and it could have been seen that she would be handsomer when
her frame had rounded out in fulfilment of its generous design. She opened
her lips to speak, but shut them again in an effort at self-control before
she said-"But I really wish to do it. At this moment I would rather be in Hatboro'
than in Rome."
"Oh, very well," said the old lady, gathering herself up as one does from
throwing away one's sympathy upon an unworthy object; "if you really
_wish_ it--"
"I know that it must seem preposterous and--and almost ungrateful that I
should think of going back, when I might just as well stay. Why, I've a
great many more friends here than I have there; I suppose I shall be almost
a stranger 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 Hatboro' I think I shall know how." She put on her glasses,
and looked at the old lady as if she might attempt an explanation, but, as
if a clearer vision of the veteran worldling discouraged her, she did not
make the effort.