"And how do you find our sweet child looking, Nelson?" inquired Lady Canning, sinking into an arm-chair.
"By George, I should say I found her very much changed!"
"For the better, dear Uncle Nelson?" said Indiana, sweetly.
"When we transplant a flower," remarked Lady Canning, "we must watch it very carefully for a time, lest it wither in the process. Indiana is a most flexible little person. She appears to have taken root in our soil so easily. She had not been here a week when she was perfectly at home."
"Thanks to your good advice, Lady Canning. You have taken so much trouble with me."
"To be frank, Nelson, Indiana was a most agreeable surprise. When Thurston wrote me that he had selected a wife in the wilds of America, I felt ill with fright. I couldn't find out anything about the place, and the name suggested horrible visions of half-breeds and wild girls who climb trees and ride horses bareback."
"America is a very large country, dear Lady Canning," said Indiana. "There are tree-climbers and bareback riders in the uncivilized parts, I believe." Thurston turned away to conceal a laugh. "In fact, I myself must have appeared—er—strange to you at first, did I not, dear Lady Canning?"
"Oh, no! Only a little rasping quality in the voice, which has since greatly modified."
"That is our climate, dear Lady Canning. The sharp winds have a tendency to pitch our voices in a high key."
"And your gowns, dear, were a little too modern—too expensive for a young wife. You don't mind my saying it, Indiana?"