are very English; but we are the
English of one hundred and fifty years ago. _We_ have not moved on, as
no doubt the English of to-day have been obliged to move; _we_ have
remained stationary. Even in dear old England itself, we should to-day,
no doubt, Garda and I, be called old-fashioned."

Winthrop found himself so highly entertained by this speech, by her "We
Thornes," and her "dear old England," that he looked down lest she
should see the change of expression which accompanies a smile, even
though the smile be hidden. This little woman had never been in England
in her life; unmistakable New Hampshire looked from her eyes, sounded in
every tone of her voice, made itself visible in all her movements and
attitudes. She was unceasingly anxious; she had never indulged herself
in anything, or taken anything lightly since she was born; she had as
little body as was possible, and in that body she had to the full the
strict American conscience. All this was vividly un-English.

"Yes, I always regret so much the modern ways into which dear England
has fallen," she went on. "It would have been beautiful if they could
but have retained the old customs, the old ideas, as we have retained
them here. But in some things they have done so," she added, with the
air of wishing to be fully just. "In the late unhappy contest, you know,
they were with us--all their best people--as to our patriarchal system
for our servants. They understood us--us of the South--completely."

Winthrop's amusement had now reached its highest point. "Heroic,
converted little Yankee school-marm," was his thought. "What a colossal
effort her life down here must have been for her, poor thing!"

"Your husband was the first of the American Thornes, then?" he said,
with the intention of drawing out more narrative.

"Oh no. The first Edgar Thorne came out from England with Governor Tonyn
(the friend of Lord Marchmont, you know), during the British occupation
of this province in the last century; he remained here after the
retrocession to Spain, because he had married a daughter of one of the
old Spanish families of this coast, Beatriz de Duero. As Beatriz was an
only child, they lived here with her parents, and the second Edgar
Thorne, their son, was born here. He also married a Duero, a cousin
named Ines; my husband, the third Edgar, was their child. My husband
came north one summer; he came to New England. There he met me. We were
married not long afterward