"Do you know where England is?"
Oh, yes, she knew where England was,—this house, this garden, all away beyond there, was England—all over there.
How proudly she waved the white hand. It was patriotism pure and simple. She was proud of her park, not because it was her park, but because it was her native land. Her—his—I cannot say "his," I must always say "her;" besides, it doesn't matter now. It will never matter again, nothing will ever matter again. What gibberish I am writing; how those trees nod and nod their heads as if they were nodding at the little graveyard "away over there," just as the chrysanthemums were nodding that morning at Geraldine.
She didn't know her Bible and she didn't know her Geography, and she didn't know "nothing." What a lot of ignorance was stowed away in that small head; but she knew something of natural history. The tapestry work had stopped, and we were walking in the little garden where the chrysanthemums were. I pointed to a snail on the path.
"What is that, Geraldine?"
"That," said Geraldine, "is a snail."
How proud she seemed of her knowledge, and how tenderly she lifted the snail on to a leaf. The clock in the clock-turret was striking noon.
"Can you read the clock, Geraldine?"
"Oh, yes, and my watch."
A watch the size of my thumb-nail was produced. How learned she was, really a kind of professor!