"Oh, as soon as ever a Yankee—there, I beg your pardon—any one from the States opens her mouth—"
"She puts her foot in it," returned Amy, with a smile.
"No, no, I wouldn't say a word against the accent, but I can always tell it. I have a sister married in the States, and her children speak like their father. When they come to visit me I tell them that they are regular Yankees. Not that I have anything against that; I hope I'll live to see Boston some time."
"Have you never been there?" asked Priscilla, in surprise.
"No, Miss; I know that it isn't so far away, but I was born in the Old Country, and when I take a trip, that's where I'd rather go;" and the little woman sighed. "But I'll show you the curiosity I spoke of."
From a drawer behind the counter she drew a small fan, one or two of whose sticks were broken, while the silk was faded and torn.
"I bought that from an old lady who said that her grandmother fanned an officer who was wounded at the Battle of Bunker Hill, while he lay sick in her house after the battle. Perhaps I oughtn't to speak of it," she concluded apologetically.
"Why not? The war's entirely over, and no one has any feeling about it now."
"I suppose not." But the woman's voice carried a question.
"Why, to prove that I have no resentment I'll buy the fan,—even if it did once soothe the brow of a hated Britisher." Amy smiled at Priscilla as she spoke.