f them in their loneliness. But the postponement
of her homecoming would only be for a fortnight at best. And she had
seen so little!

In due time Aunt Mary's letter arrived. There was no mention of
loneliness in it, only of joy that Honora was to have the opportunity to
visit such a place as Silverdale. Aunt Mary, it seems, had seen pictures
of it long ago in a magazine of the book club, in an article concerning
one of Mrs. Holt's charities--a model home for indiscreet young women.
At the end of the year, Aunt Mary added, she had bought the number of
the magazine, because of her natural interest in Mrs. Holt on Honora's
account. Honora cried a little over that letter, but her determination
to go to Silverdale was unshaken.

June came at last, and the end of school. The subject of Miss Turner's
annual talk was worldliness. Miss Turner saw signs, she regretted to
say, of a lowering in the ideals of American women: of a restlessness,
of a desire for what was a false consideration and recognition; for
power. Some of her own pupils, alas! were not free from this fault.
Ethel Wing, who was next to Honora, nudged her and laughed, and passed
her some of Maillard's chocolates, which she had in her pocket. Woman's
place, continued Miss Turner, was the home, and she hoped they would
all make good wives. She had done her best to prepare them to be
such. Independence, they would find, was only relative: no one had it
completely. And she hoped that none of her scholars would ever descend
to that base competition to outdo one's neighbours, so characteristic of
the country to-day.

The friends, and even the enemies, were kissed good-by, with pledges of
eternal friendship. Cousin Eleanor Hanbury came for Edith and Mary, and
hoped Honora would enjoy herself at Silverdale. Dear Cousin Eleanor!
Her heart was large, and her charity unpretentious. She slipped into
Honora's fingers, as she embraced her, a silver-purse with some gold
coins in it, and bade her not to forget to write home very often.

"You know what pleasure it will give them, my dear," she said, as she
stepped on the train for New York.

"And I am going home soon, Cousin Eleanor," replied Honora, with a
little touch of homesickness in her voice.

"I know, dear," said Mrs. Hanbury. But there was a peculiar, almost
wistful expression on her face as she kissed Honora again, as of one who
assents to a fiction in order to humour a child.

As the train pulled out, Ethel Wing