But, whatever might be said of places that shall be nameless, it was otherwise with Kingsborough.  Kingsborough was the same yesterday, to-day, and forever.  She who had feasted royal governors, staked and lost upon Colonial races, and exploded like an ignited powder-horn in the cause of American independence, was still superbly conscious of the honours which had been hers.  Her governors were no longer royal, nor did she feast them; her races were run by fleet-footed coloured urchins on the court-house green; her powder-magazine had evolved through differentiation from a stable into a church; but Kingsborough clung to her amiable habits.  Travellers still arrived at the landing stage some several miles distant and were driven over all but impassable roads to the town.  The eastern wall of the court-house still bore the sign “England Street,” though the street had vanished beneath encroaching buttercups, and the implied loyalty had been found wanting.  Kingsborough juries still sat in their original semicircle, with their backs to the judge and their faces, presumably, to the law; Kingsborough farmers still marketed their small truck in the street called after the Duke of Gloucester; and Kingsborough cows still roamed at will over the vaults in the churchyard.  In time trivial changes would come to pass.  Tourists would arrive with the railroad; the powder-magazine would turn from a church into a museum; gardens would decay and ancient elms would fall, but the farmers and the cows would not be missed from their accustomed haunts.  On the hospitable thresholds of “general” stores battle-scarred veterans of the war between the States dealt in victorious reminiscences of vanquishment.  They had fought well, they had fallen silently, and they had risen without bitterness.  For the people of Kingsborough had opened their doors to wounded foes while the battle raged through their streets, succouring while they resisted.  They lived easily and they died hard, but when death came they met it, not in grim Puritanism, but with a laugh upon the lips.  They made a joy of life while it was possible, and when that ceased to be, they did the next best thing and made a friend of death.  Long ago theirs had been the first part in Virginia, and, as they still believed, theirs had been also the centre of all things.  Now the high places were laid low, and the greatness had passed as a trumpet that is blown.  Kingsborough persisted still, but it persisted evasively, hovering, as it were, upon the outskirts of modern advancement.  And the outside world took note only when it made tours to historic strongholds, or sent those of itself that were adjudged insane to the hospitable shelter of the asylum upon the hill.

It was afternoon, and Kingsborough was asleep.