Annie Kilburn

Annie Kilburn

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Title: Annie Kilburn A Novel
Author: W. D. Howells
Release Date: February, 2005 [EBook #7502] [Yes, we are more than
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ANNIE KILBURN
a Novel
BY
W. D. HOWELLS
Author of
"Indian Summer" "The Rise of Silas Lapham" "April Hopes" etc.

I.
After the death of Judge Kilburn his daughter came back to America.
They had been eleven winters in Rome, always meaning to return, but
staying on from year to year, as people do who have nothing definite to
call them home. Toward the last Miss Kilburn tacitly gave up the
expectation of getting her father away, though they both continued to
say that they were going to take passage as soon as the weather was
settled in the spring. At the date they had talked of for sailing he was

lying in the Protestant cemetery, and she was trying to gather herself
together, and adjust her life to his loss. This would have been easier
with a younger person, for she had been her father's pet so long, and
then had taken care of his helplessness with a devotion which was
finally so motherly, that it was like losing at once a parent and a child
when he died, and she remained with the habit of giving herself when
there was no longer any one to receive the sacrifice. He had married
late, and in her thirty-first year he was seventy-eight; but the disparity
of their ages, increasing toward the end through his infirmities, had not
loosened for her the ties of custom and affection that bound them; she
had seen him grow more and more fitfully cognisant of what they had
been to each other since her mother's death, while she grew the more
tender and fond with him. People who came to condole with her
seemed not to understand this, or else they thought it would help her to
bear up if they treated her bereavement as a relief from hopeless
anxiety. They were all surprised when she told them she still meant to
go home.
"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."
"And you are going from Rome to Hatboro', Mass.," said the old lady,
trying to present the idea in