humorous, I notice. But what
would you have said if Hannah had told you to say: 'So am I' when
strangers said: 'I am glad to meet you'? That was what some one told me,
when I first began talking English."

"If Hannah should tell me wrong, I would tell her what I think of her!"
blazed Frieda. "But you need not lecture any more, Karl. I understand,
and I will be good. I will be better than Hannah. I will be better than
yourself, than the saints, even. I will admire all things. Behold the
ravishing country! The wonder of that sky! Not Italy, not Spain has such
a dull gray color! The beauty of the dirty streets! The charm of the
crowded street-cars! Only five cents a ride, sitting upon the laps of
others! I will no longer sew on Sunday. I will never ask for beer. I
will eat every morning little dry cushions of curled grain. I will rock
madly. I will--"

"Hold on, Frieda!" shouted Karl. "Don't reform so fast. I can't keep
within speaking distance of you. You know, the reason I scolded you so
hard was because I sometimes feel just as you do about the whole
country!"

Frieda put out her hand. "Let us make a compact. For the honor of
Germany, we will be scrupulously careful of what we say about America,
but sometimes, all by ourselves, we can say just what we feel like
saying." Karl took her hand solemnly. "It's a bargain, and you are a
Cor-r-rker-r-r!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

BROOKMEADOW

Clara Lyndesay stood in the doorway of her Brookmeadow house, listening
for the coming trolley. As she waited, she looked about her with
satisfaction.

The big square house, freshly painted white, with green blinds at the
windows, stood just at the edge of the broad elm-shaded road, known as
the Albany Road because it had been, in stage-coach days, the main line
between Albany and Boston. Just opposite the house was a broad meadow
with a single elm in the center, and a clear line of hills for
background. Boulder walls enclosed the meadow, and vines ran riot over
them. The artist, looking, drew a deep breath.

"'The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground. Yea, I have a goodly
heritage,'" she thought to herself. "I think I shall call my
wander-years over, and settle down here as Aunt Abigail hoped I would,
and care for her old mahogany as she did, painting a picture now and
then from my own doorway. The doorway itself is the most beautiful thing
about the house," she added, stepping down the flagged path, to view it
for the hundred