Annie Kilburn | Page 2

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.
"Oh!" said the old lady. "If you want to be of use, and do good--" She
stopped, as if then there were no more to be said by a sensible person.
"And shall you be going soon?" she asked. The idea seemed to suggest
her own departure, and she rose after speaking.
"Just as soon as possible," answered Miss Kilburn. Words take on a
colour of something more than their explicit meaning from the mood in
which they are spoken: Miss Kilburn had a sense of hurrying her visitor
away, and the old lady had a sense of being turned out-of-doors, that
the preparations for the homeward voyage might begin instantly.

II.
Many times after the preparations began, and many times after they
were ended, Miss Kilburn faltered in doubt of her decision; and if there
had been any will stronger than her own to oppose it, she might have
reversed it, and stayed in Rome. All the way home there was a strain of
misgiving in her satisfaction at doing what she believed to be for the
best, and the first sight of her native land gave her a shock of emotion
which was not unmixed joy. She felt forlorn among people who were
coming home with all sorts of high expectations, while she only had

high intentions.
These dated back a good many years; in fact, they dated back to the
time when the first flush of her unthinking girlhood was over, and she
began to question herself as to the life she was living. It was a very
pleasant life, ostensibly. Her father had been elected from the bench to
Congress, and had kept his title and his repute as a lawyer through
several terms in the House before he settled down to the practice of his
profession in the courts at Washington, where he made a good deal of
money. They passed from boarding to house-keeping, in the easy
Washington way, after their impermanent Congressional years, and
divided their time between a comfortable little place in Nevada Circle
and the old homestead in Hatboro'. He was fond of Washington, and
robustly content with the world as he found it there and elsewhere. If
his daughter's compunctions came to her through him, it must have
been from some remoter ancestry; he was not apparently characterised
by their transmission, and probably she derived them from her mother,
who died when she was