theirs, but not wanting to hurt Miss Susanna, who has been sending the
same carriage to the station for over thirty years, I didn't accept
their offers, but went down in the coach, as Uncle Henson calls it.
Its top is still upholstered in a sun-shaped thing which was once
yellow satin and now tattered and torn, and hardly anybody ever rides
in it, but when a new boarder comes Miss Susanna always says, in that
queenly way of hers, "You will take the carriage to the station,
Henson," and Uncle Henson's old gray head bows as if at royal orders,
and they do not know they are playing a part that belongs to the days
that are no more. That is what Tennyson, I think, calls a time that
will never be the same again.

Uncle Henson's coachman's coat, long and faded and once brass-buttoned,
and a battered hat to match, are always put on to meet the train; and
when he held the door open for Father to get in the old, ramshackle
thing he did it in a way that could be sold for big money, if manner
could be bought, and Father got inside with equal elegance. After he
was in and Uncle Henson couldn't see him, he looked at me as if to ask
if I thought it would stand, and I nodded back yes, and slipped my hand
in his and hugged him again, I was so glorious glad to see him! He is
such a splendid Father--my Father is, I am so sorry for girls who
haven't one like mine, and not one of them has. He is the only one of
his kind on earth.

Everybody was on the porch to meet us when we drove up, and Miss
Susanna gave him such a gracious welcome, and was so sweet and stately
and quaint and lovely in her white dotted Swiss muslin dress which Miss
Araminta Armstrong says she has been wearing for six summers, and which
has the dearest little darns in it, that Father's face got real
flushed, and once I really believe there were tears in his eyes. He