ry and court-plaster and cotton cloth
and medicines that she and Lionel could possibly require during the next
five years,--it promised to be a long job.

In vain did Lionel remonstrate, and assure his sister that every one of
these things could be had equally well at St. Helen's, where some of
them went almost every day, and that extra baggage cost so much on the
Pacific railways that the price of such commodities would be nearly
doubled before she got them safely to the High Valley.

"Now what can be the use of taking two pounds of pins, for example?" he
protested. "Pins are as plenty as blackberries in America. And all those
spools of thread too!"

"Reels of cotton, do you mean? I wish you would speak English, at least
while we are in England. I shouldn't dare go without plenty of such
things. American cotton isn't as good as ours; I've always been told
that."

"Well, it's good enough, as you'll find. And do make a place for
something pretty; a few nice tea-cups for instance, and some things to
hold flowers, and some curtain stuffs for the windows, and photographs.
Geoff and Mrs. Geoff have made their house awfully nice, I can tell you.
Americans think a deal of that sort of thing. All this haberdashery and
hardware is ridiculous, and you'll be sorry enough that you didn't
listen to me before you are through with it."

"Mother has packed some cups already, I believe, and I'll take that
white Minton jar if you like, but really I shouldn't think delicate
things like that would be at all suitable in a new place like Colorado,
where people must rough it as we are going to do. You are so infatuated
about America, Lion, that I can't trust your opinion at all."

"I've been there, and you haven't," was all that Lionel urged in answer.
It seemed an incontrovertible argument, but Imogen made no attempt to
overthrow it. She only packed on according to her own ideas, quite
unconvinced.

It lacked only five days of their setting out when she and her brother
walked into Bideford one afternoon for some last errands. It was June
now, and the south of England was at its freshest and fairest. The
meadows along the margin of the Torridge wore their richest green, the
hill slopes above them were a bloom of soft color. Each court yard and
garden shimmered with the gold of laburnums or the purple and white of
clustering clematis; and the scent of flowers came with every puff of
air.

As they passed up the side street, a carriage