“The sky and water and those mossy rocks remind me of Mr. Kensett’s pictures,” Clara said. “He seems to have been created to paint Newport delightfully.” “Rather Newport for him to paint,” corrected Diana, “as the world was made for man, the immortal. Besides, Mr. Kensett is not narrowed to Newport for his subjects. I notice that so many of you who know him speak of him by his prenom. Only very genial men are so fortunate as to be treated with this familiarity, even by their friends.” “He is indeed genial--one of the men whose personal, apart from his artistic life, is for the sunny happiness of those who know him. Apropos of prenoms, Miss Clara,” continued Dunstan, “pray what melodious, terminal syllables belong to your father’s initial, W.? G. W.--his G. is George, I know. His W. is what?” “It is an old family name,” replied Clara; “Whitegift. My father is fond of genealogy and traces the name to a relative, a Bishop Whitegift.” “An odd name,” said Dunstan. “I seem to have heard it before. Ah, now I recollect having read in some old family manuscript that my ancestor, Miles Standish, had some feud with a Pilgrim of that name.” Clara laughed. “You must talk with Mr. Ira Waddy. He has a legend that the first Waddy, Whitegift by name, was cook of the _Mayflower_, and that there grew a feud between him and Miles Standish. The cook put too little pepper in the hero’s porridge. Hence an abiding curse, which Mr. Waddy says depressed his branch of the family until his time. He represents the democratic side of our history. My father rather scoffs at the legend. I must tell him the odd confirmation of it from you. It will shock his aristocratic feelings terribly.” “Bah! for the legend,” said Dunstan. “Your ancestors, fair lady, were gods and goddesses of other realms than those dusky and too savoury ones where cooks do reign supreme. But I cannot permit my ancestor’s curse to rest longer upon you. In my capacity as his representative, in eldest line, I wave my hand. The curse is revoked, nay, changed to a blessing. The old feud is at an end. It will never be revived between us. We shall never quarrel.” “I hope not,” said Clara, and turning away abruptly, she renewed her conversation with Paulding apart. “You accent the ‘we,’” said Diana, “as if you could imagine yourself quarrelling with other women.” “Yes,” said he; “why not? But women have always the advantage of us in a quarrel. We can compel a man traitor or wrong-doer to pistol or rifle practice. If he shirks, he becomes a colonist of Coventry. But a woman shelters herself behind her sex and dodges the duello. There ought to be a code of honour for them also.” “There is--in the hearts of the honourable,” said she. “Ah, yes! but who are they? How are we to know them, except by those very tests that we cannot apply until falseness and dishonour on the woman’s part will be to us the cause of bitter wrong, such as a man should pay us with his life?”