and strapped it on.  Catherine, Mary Ann, and Bridget, all weeping, were kissed good-by, and off they went through the dusk to the station.  Not the old Union Depot, with its wooden sheds, where Honora had gone so often to see the Hanburys off, that grimy gateway to the fairer regions of the earth.  This new station, of brick and stone and glass and tiles, would hold an army corps with ease.  And when they alighted at the carriage entrance, a tall figure came forward out of the shadow.  It was Peter, and he had a package under his arm.  Peter checked Honora’s trunk, and Peter had got the permission—­through Judge Brice—­which enabled them all to pass through the grille and down the long walk beside which the train was standing.

They entered that hitherto mysterious conveyance, a sleeping-car, and spoke to old Mrs. Stanley, who was going East to see her married daughter, and who had gladly agreed to take charge of Honora.  Afterwards they stood on the platform, but in spite of the valiant efforts of Uncle Tom and Peter, conversation was a mockery.

“Honora,” said Aunt Mary, “don’t forget that your trunk key is in the little pocket on the left side of your bag.”

“No, Aunt Mary.”

“And your little New Testament at the bottom.  And your lunch is arranged in three packages.  And don’t forget to ask Cousin Eleanor about the walking shoes, and to give her my note.”

Cries reverberated under the great glass dome, and trains pulled out with deafening roars.  Honora had a strange feeling, as of pressure from within, that caused her to take deep breaths of the smoky air.  She but half heard what was being said to her:  she wished that the train would go, and at the same time she had a sudden, surprising, and fierce longing to stay.  She had been able to eat scarcely a mouthful of that festal dinner which Bridget had spent the afternoon in preparing, comprised wholly of forbidden dishes of her childhood, for which Bridget and Aunt Mary were justly famed.  Such is the irony of life.  Visions of one of Aunt Mary’s rare lunch-parties and of a small girl peeping covetously through a crack in the dining-room door, and of the gold china set, rose before her.  But she could not eat.

“Bread and jam and tea at Miss Turner’s,” Uncle Tom had said, and she had tried to smile at him.

And now they were standing on the platform, and the train might start at any moment.

“I trust you won’t get like the New Yorkers, Honora,” said Aunt Mary.  “Do you remember how stiff they were, Tom?” She was still in the habit of referring to that memorable trip when they had brought Honora home.  “And they say now that they hold their heads higher than ever.”

“That,” said Uncle Tom, gravely, “is a local disease, and comes from staring at the tall buildings.”

“Uncle Tom!”

Peter presented the parcel under his arm.  It was a box of candy, and very heavy, on which much thought had been spent.