"Why, my dear," said one old lady, who had been away from America twenty
years, "_this_ is home! You've lived in this apartment longer now
than the oldest inhabitant has lived in most American towns. What are you
talking about? Do you mean that you are going back to Washington?"

"Oh no. We were merely staying on in Washington from force of habit, after
father gave up practice. I think we shall go back to the old homestead,
where we used to spend our summers, ever since I can remember."

"And where is that?" the old lady asked, with the sharpness which people
believe must somehow be good for a broken spirit.

"It's in the interior of Massachusetts--you wouldn't know it: a place
called Hatboro'."

"No, I certainly shouldn't," said the old lady, with superiority. "Why
Hatboro', of all the ridiculous reasons?"

"It was one of the first places where they began to make straw hats; it was
a nickname at first, and then they adopted it. The old name was Dorchester
Farms. Father fought the change, but it was of no use; the people wouldn't
have it Farms after the place began to grow; and by that time they had got
used to Hatboro'. Besides, I don't see how it's any worse than Hatfield, in
England."

"It's very American."

"Oh, it's American. We have Boxboro' too, you know, in Massachusetts."