hope he will appreciate
his native land now he has come to it. Though you have said nothing we
cannot, of course, look on him as a little stranger, and so I am sending
him the old Lashmar christening mug. It has been with us since Gregory
Lashmar, your great-grandmother's brother--

George stared at his wife.

"Go on," she twinkled, from the pillows.

--mother's brother, sold his place to Walter's family. We seem to have
acquired some of your household gods at that time, but nothing survives
except the mug and the old cradle, which I found in the potting-shed and
am having put in order for you. I hope little George--Lashmar, he will
be too, won't he?--will live to see his grandchildren cut their teeth on
his mug.

Affectionately yours,
ALICE CONANT.

P.S.--How quiet you've kept about it all!

"Well, I'm--"

"Don't swear," said Sophie. "Bad for the infant mind."

"But how in the world did she get at it? Have you ever said a word about
the Lashmars?"

"You know the only time--to young Iggulden at Rocketts--when Iggulden
died."

"Your great-grandmother's brother! She's traced the whole
connection--more than your Aunt Sydney could do. What does she mean
about our keeping quiet?"

Sophie's eyes sparkled. "I've thought that out too. We've got back at
the English at last. Can't you see that she thought that we thought my
mother's being a Lashmar was one of those things we'd expect the English
to find out for themselves, and that's impressed her?" She turned
the mug in her white hands, and sighed happily. "'Wayte awhyle--wayte
awhyle.' That's not a bad motto, George. It's been worth it."

"But still I don't quite see--"

"I shouldn't wonder if they don't think our coming here was part of a
deep-laid scheme to be near our ancestors. They'd understand that. And
look how they've accepted us, all of them."

"Are we so undesirable in ourselves?" George grunted.

"Be just, me lord. That wretched Sangres man has twice our money. Can
you see Marm Conant slapping him between the shoulders? Not by a jugful!
The poor beast doesn't exist!"

"Do you think it's that then?" He looked toward the cot by the fire
where the godling snorted.

"The minute I get well I shall find out from Mrs. Cloke what every
Lashmar gives in doles (that's nicer than tips) every time a Lashmite is
born. I've done my duty thus far, but there's much expected of me."

Entered here Mrs. Cloke, and hung worshipping over the c