He turned round and walked right out.  Nobody thanked him or said a word.  We were too much surprised.

Mother spoke first; after we had hushed up Stephen, who shouted.

I shall call her “mother,” now; for it always seems as if that were a woman’s real name among her children.  Mr. Holabird was apt to call her so himself.  She did not altogether like it, always, from him.  She asked him once if “Emily” were dead and buried.  She had tried to keep her name herself, she said; that was the reason she had not given it to either of her daughters.  It was a good thing to leave to a grandchild; but she could not do without it as long as she lived.

“We could keep a cow!” said mother.

“We could have a pony!” cried Stephen, utterly disregarded.

“What does he want to move it quite over for?” asked Rosamond.  “His land begins this side.”

“Rosamond wants so to get among the Hill people!  Pray, why can’t we have a colony of our own?” said Barbara, sharply and proudly.

“I should think it would be less trouble,” said Rosamond, quietly, in continuation of her own remark; holding up, as she spoke, her finished hat upon her hand.  Rosamond aimed at being truly elegant.  She would never discuss, directly, any questions of our position, or our limitations.

“Does that look—­”

“Holabirdy?” put in Barbara.  “No.  Not a bit.  Things that you do never do.”

Rosamond felt herself flush up.  Alice Marchbanks had said once, of something that we wore, which was praised as pretty, that it “might be, but it was Holabirdy.”  Rosamond found it hard to forget that.

“I beg your pardon, Rose.  It’s just as pretty as it can be; and I don’t mean to tease you,” said Barbara, quickly.  “But I do mean to be proud of being Holabirdy, just as long as there’s a piece of the name left.”

“I wish we hadn’t bought the new carpet now,” said mother.  “And what shall we do about all those other great rooms?  It will take ready money to move.  I’m afraid we shall have to cut it off somewhere else for a while.  What if it should be the music, Ruth?”

That did go to Ruth’s heart.  She tried so hard to be willing that she did not speak at first.

“‘Open and shet is a sign of more wet!’” cried Barbara.  “I don’t believe there ever was a family that had so much opening and shetting!  We just get a little squeak out of a crack, and it goes together again and snips our noses!”

“What is a ‘squeak’ out of a crack?” said Rosamond, laughing.  “A mouse pinched in it, I should think.”

“Exactly,” replied Barbara.  “The most expressive words are fricassees,—­heads and tails dished up together.  Can’t you see the philology of it?  ‘Squint’ and ‘peek.’  Worcester can’t put down everything.  He leaves something to human ingenuity.  The language isn’t all made,—­or used,—­yet!”

Barbara had a way of putting heads and tails together, in defiance—­in aid, as she maintained—­of the dictionaries.