“Well, it hasn’t happened since I’ve been here, anyway.  But I’ll bet you a bob it means kicked out.  I tell you, I’ll ask Gertie if she doesn’t think that I ought to be weeded out.”

“You’d better not,” laughed Nora.

The first open quarrel had taken place one day at dinner.

The night before Nora had proposed making her first attempt at baking bread.  Gertie had given a grudging consent.  Everything had gone well until the bread, once in the oven, Nora had gone to her room to add some pages to a long letter which she had begun, some evenings before to Agnes Pringle.

Gertie had been out in one of the barns most of the morning engaged in some mysterious task which she had been reserving until the weather became milder—­there had been a decided thaw, setting in the day before—­and Nora intended to be gone only a short time.

Filled with a warm feeling of gratitude to Miss Pringle for her generous loan of the ten-pound note, she was writing her a long letter in the form of a diary describing her voyage across the Atlantic and the trip across the Continent, both of which she was sure would greatly interest her friend and furnish her with topics for her tete-a-tete dinners with the excellent Mrs. Hubbard for some days to come.

Of the difficulties and disappointments in her new life she was resolved to say nothing.  Nora hated to confess that she had failed in anything.  And, so far, she could hardly say that she had made a success.  Later on, she might have to acknowledge that her move had been a mistake.  But for the moment she would confine herself to describing all that struck her as novel and strange while the impression was still fresh, while she still had the ‘seeing eye.’

“When I came to the end of my last page (and I remember that I was getting extremely sleepy at that point),” she wrote, “I had just finished describing the exterior of my brother’s house to you.  I am sure I can never do justice to the interior!  You can never have seen, much less imagined, anything in the least like it.  I have decided, upon reflection, that it is the most un-English thing I have seen yet:  and I have not forgotten those strange railway carriages either.

“Try to imagine a large room, longer than it is deep, at once living-room, dining-room and kitchen; with nothing but rough brown boards for walls, on which—­some framed, some unframed—­are the colored supplements of the Christmas illustrated papers, both English and American.  Over one of the doors is a magnificent trophy—­at least that is what we would call it at home—­I think it is a moose.  I am not at all sure, although I have been told more than once.  Over another door is a large clock, such a one as one finds in a broker’s office with us.  The floor is covered with what is called oilcloth—­I wonder why:  it certainly is not the least like cloth—­very new and excessively shiny.  It has a conventional pattern in black and white, and when the sun shines on it, it quite dazzles one’s eyes.