colonial cocked hat. If the truth be told, Honora had secretly idealized
Miss Wing, and had found her insouciance, frankness, and tendency to
ridicule delightful. Militant--that was indeed Ethel's note--militant
and positive.

"You're not going home with Susan!" she had exclaimed, making a little
face when Honora had told her. "They say that Silverdale is as slow as a
nunnery--and you're on your knees all the time. You ought to have come to
Newport with me."

It was characteristic of Miss Wing that she seemed to have taken no
account of the fact that she had neglected to issue this alluring
invitation. Life at Silverdale slow! How could it be slow amidst such
beauty and magnificence?

The train was stopping at a new little station on which hung the legend,
in gold letters, "Sutton." The sun was well on his journey towards the
western hills. Susan had touched her on the shoulder.

"Here we are, Honora," she said, and added, with an unusual tremor in her
voice, "at last!"

On the far side of the platform a yellow, two-seated wagon was waiting,
and away they drove through the village, with its old houses and its
sleepy streets and its orchards, and its ancient tavern dating from
stage-coach days. Just outside of it, on the tree-dotted slope of a long
hill, was a modern brick building, exceedingly practical in appearance,
surrounded by spacious grounds enclosed in a paling fence. That, Susan
said, was the Sutton Home.