and clumsy fastenings, and every little detail that made the place alien
and precious.

Fanny broke into a laugh at the visionary absence in her face.

"Do you think the place is good enough for your hero and heroine?" asked
she, slyly; for Kitty had one of those family reputes, so hard to
survive, for childish attempts of her own in the world of fiction where
so great part of her life had been passed; and Mrs. Ellison, who was as
unliterary a soul as ever breathed, admired her with the heartiness
which unimaginative people often feel for their idealizing friends, and
believed that she was always deep in the mysteries of some plot.

"O, I don't know," Kitty answered with a little color, "about heroes and
heroines; but, I'd like to live here, myself. Yes," she continued,
rather to herself than to her listener, "I do believe this is what I was
made for. I've always wanted to live amongst old things, in a stone
house with dormer-windows. Why, there isn't a single dormer-window in
Eriecreek, nor even a brick house, let alone a stone one. O yes, indeed!
I was meant for an old country."

"Well, then, Kitty, I don't see what you're to do but to marry East and
live East; or else find a rich husband, and get him to take you to
Europe to live."

"Yes; or get him to come and live in Quebec. That's all I'd ask, and he
needn't be a very rich man, for that."

"Why, you poor child, what sort of husband could you get to settle down
in _this_ dead old place?"