After dinner she persisted in assisting Sylvia in clearing away the table and washing the dishes.
Rose took a childish delight in polishing the china with her dish-towel.

New England traits seemed to awake within her in this New England home.

Sylvia was using the willow ware now, Rose was so pleased with it.

The Calkin's soap ware was packed away on the top shelf of the pantry.
"It is perfectly impossible, Aunt Sylvia," Rose had declared, and Sylvia had listened.

She listened with much more docility than at first to the decrees of sophistication.
"The painting ain't nearly as natural," she had said, feebly, regarding the moss rosebuds on a Calkin's soap plate with fluctuating admiration which caused her pain by its fluctuations.
"Oh, but, Aunt Sylvia, to think of comparing for one minute ware like that with this perfectly wonderful old willow ware!" Rose had said.
"Well, have your own way," said Sylvia, with a sigh.