"I beg pardon," remarked Lord Canning.
"Balsaming," she repeated. "That's what they call it here—picking balsam." She knocked his forehead lightly with her forefinger. "See it now—or shall I get a hammer?"
He laughed. "My stupidity must try your patience at times, Mrs. Bunker."
"I wanted some to fill the pillow I am making for Lord Stafford to take to England—when he goes." Lord Stafford offered her his arm, and, laughing, they continued their way to the camp.
"Then you haven't much faith in our speedy departure—although you drank the toast last night, Mrs. Bunker?"
"Not in yours—your nephew's, yes. But I don't imagine you'll go with him."
"Probably not, Mrs. Bunker. Under certain circumstances, I might consider it advisable to prolong my trip. And I must say the prospect of remaining in America is delightful to me—most delightful."
"The fact is, Lord Canning," continued Stillwater, "we spoil our children. We know it, but we can't help it. The girls, mind you—the boys are easy enough thrown on the world—but the girls," he smiled fondly, "the pretty, little, delicate girls—how can you help spoiling them? You should have seen Indy—" Lord Canning's face assumed an expression of deep interest. "A doll—you could have put her in a quart pitcher. She'd roll up her little sleeves, and fight and sass me—we'd roar at her. As she grew up, it grew with her, and now when she gets in a temper, we all scatter till she's over it. And then she creeps under your coat, like a little, white mouse, and loves you so, with her pretty hands and her soft face. Now, what can a man do?"
Lord Canning regarded his host reflectively. "You begin early to make a rough road for the girl's future husband, don't you?"
"Oh, no! Our people understand that every man is under the thumb of his wife, and is proud of it."