At the old name, the old candid admiration, tears rushed suddenly to Clodagh's eyes.
"I'm not, darling! I'm not! But you are sweet—and the same, oh, the very same!"
She laughed with a break in her voice; then, as two porters came down the platform rolling Nance's luggage, she remembered the necessities of the moment.
"Is this yours?"
"Yes; my American clothes. Do I look very American?"
"You look sweet! Myers," she added to the groom, who had come forward, "this is Miss Asshlin's luggage. And will you, please, go back in the dog-cart. I want to drive the pony home."
Myers touched his cap.
"Very good, ma'am!"
He turned, and passed out of the station.
Nance pressed her sister's hand with one of her old shy laughs, that sounded infinitely sweet from grown-up lips.