“It is our name Americanized; we have made Americans of ourselves, and the Bianchi have become the Blanchards.”

“The romance of the family, then,” persisted Lawrence, “must needs become Americanized too.  If you were to meet with a lovely young lady of the enemy’s race, I think you would be willing to bury your sword in the sheath for her sake.”

“I hope I should not forget the honor of my family,” said Otho.  “I certainly never could, as long as my mother lives; her feelings on the subject are stronger even than mine.”

“I cannot imagine the possibility of such feelings dying out,” said Isabella.  “I cannot imagine such different elements amalgamating.  It would be like fire and water uniting.  Then there would be no longer any contest; the game of life would be over.”

“Why will you make out life to be a battle always?” exclaimed Lawrence; “won’t you allow us any peace?  I do not find such contests all the time,—­never, except when I am fighting with you.”

“I had rather fight with you than against you,” said Isabella, laughing.  “But when one is not striving, one is sleeping.”

“That reminds me that it is time for our siesta,” said Lawrence; “so we need not fight any longer.”

Afterwards Isabella and Celia were talking of their new friend Otho.

“He does not seem to me like a Spaniard,” said Celia, “his complexion is so light; then, too, his name sounds German.”

“But his passions are quick,” replied Isabella.  “How he colored up when he spoke of the honor of his family!”

“I wonder that you like him,” said Celia; “when he is with his mother, he hardly ventures to say his soul is his own.”

“I don’t like his mother,” said Isabella; “her manner is too imperious and unrefined, it appears to me.  No wonder that Otho is ill at ease in her presence.  It is evident that her way of talking is not agreeable to him.  He is afraid that she will commit herself in some way.”

“But he never stands up for himself,” answered Celia; “he always yields to her.  Now I should not think you would like that.”

“He yields because she is his mother,” said Isabella; “and it would not be becoming to contradict her.”

“He yields to you, too,” said Celia; “how happens that?”

“I hope he does not yield to me more than is becoming,” answered Isabella, laughing; “perhaps that is why I like him.  After all, I don’t care to be always sparring, as I am with Lawrence Egerton.  With Otho I find that I agree wonderfully in many things.  Neither of us yields to the other, neither of us is obliged to convince the other.”

“Now I should think you would find that stupid,” said Celia.  “What becomes of this desire of yours never to rest, always to be struggling after something?”

“We might strive together, we might struggle together,” responded Isabella.