Owing to the sudden withdrawal from school of little Louise Simpson, the Cincinnati girl who had shared her room during the first term, Honora had a new room-mate after the holidays, Susan Holt.  Susan was not beautiful, but she was good.  Her nose turned up, her hair Honora described as a negative colour, and she wore it in defiance of all prevailing modes.  If you looked very hard at Susan (which few people ever did), you saw that she had remarkable blue eyes:  they were the eyes of a saint.  She was neither tall nor short, and her complexion was not all that it might have been.  In brief, Susan was one of those girls who go through a whole term at boarding—­school without any particular notice from the more brilliant Honoras and Ethel Wings.

In some respects, Susan was an ideal room-mate.  She read the Bible every night and morning, and she wrote many letters home.  Her ruling passion, next to religion, was order, and she took it upon herself to arrange Honora’s bureau drawers.  It is needless to say that Honora accepted these ministrations and that she found Susan’s admiration an entirely natural sentiment.  Susan was self-effacing, and she enjoyed listening to Honora’s views on all topics.

Susan, like Peter, was taken for granted.  She came from somewhere, and after school was over, she would go somewhere.  She lived in New York, Honora knew, and beyond that was not curious.  We never know when we are entertaining an angel unawares.  One evening, early in May, when she went up to prepare for supper she found Susan sitting in the window reading a letter, and on the floor beside her was a photograph.  Honora picked it up.  It was the picture of a large country house with many chimneys, taken across a wide green lawn.

“Susan, what’s this?”

Susan looked up.

“Oh, it’s Silverdale.  My brother Joshua took it.”

“Silverdale?” repeated Honora.

“It’s our place in the country,” Susan replied.  “The family moved up last week.  You see, the trees are just beginning to bud.”

Honora was silent a moment, gazing at the picture.

“It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?  You never told me about it.”

“Didn’t I?” said Susan.  “I think of it very often.  It has always seemed much more like home to me than our house in New York, and I love it better than any spot I know.”

Honora gazed at Susan, who had resumed her reading.

“And you are going there when school is over.”

“Oh, yes,” said Susan; “I can hardly wait.”  Suddenly she put down her letter, and looked at Honora.

“And you,” she asked, “where are you going?”

“I don’t know.  Perhaps—­perhaps I shall go to the sea for a while with my cousins.”

It was foolish, it was wrong.  But for the life of her Honora could not say she was going to spend the long hot summer in St. Louis.  The thought of it had haunted her for weeks:  and sometimes, when the other girls were discussing their plans, she had left them abruptly.  And now she was aware that Susan’s blue eyes were fixed upon her, and that they had a strange and penetrating quality she had never noticed before:  a certain tenderness, an understanding that made Honora redden and turn.