masticating the special dishes which the butler impressively laid before him. He asked her a few questions about Miss Turner's school, but it was not until she had admired the mass of peonies in the centre of the table that his eyes brightened, and he smiled.
“You like flowers?” he asked.
“I love them,” slid Honora.
“I am the gardener here,” he said. “You must see my garden, Miss Leffingwell. I am in it by half-past six every morning, rain or shine.”
Honora looked up, and surprised Mrs. Robert's eyes fixed on her with the same strange expression she had noticed on her arrival. And for some senseless reason, she flushed.
The conversation was chiefly carried on by kindly little Mrs. Joshua and by Mrs. Holt, who seemed at once to preside and to dominate. She praised Honora's gown, but left a lingering impression that she thought her overdressed, without definitely saying so. And she made innumerable—and often embarrassing—inquiries about Honora's aunt and uncle, and her life in St. Louis, and her friends there, and how she had happened to go to Sutcliffe to school. Sometimes Honora blushed, but she answered them all good-naturedly. And when at length the meal had marched sedately down to the fruit, Mrs. Holt rose and drew Honora out of the dining room.
“It is a little hard on you, my dear,” she said, “to give you so much family on your arrival. But there are some other people coming to-morrow, when it will be gayer, I hope, for you and Susan.”
“It is so good of you and Susan to want me, Mrs. Holt,” replied Honora, “I am enjoying it so much. I have never been in a big country house like this, and I am glad there is no one else here. I have heard my aunt speak of you so often, and tell how kind you were to take charge of me, that I have always hoped to know you sometime or other. And it seems the strangest of coincidences that I should have roomed with Susan at Sutcliffe.”
“Susan has grown very fond of you,” said Mrs. Holt, graciously. “We are very glad to have you, my dear, and I must own that I had a curiosity to see you again. Your aunt struck me as a good and sensible woman, and it was a positive relief to know that you were to be confided to her care.” Mrs. Holt, however, shook her head and regarded Honora, and her next remark might have been taken as a clew to her thoughts. “But we are not very gay at Silverdale, Honora.”
Honora's quick intuition detected the implication of a frivolity which even her sensible aunt had not been able to eradicate.
“Oh, Mrs. Holt,” she cried, “I shall be so happy here, just seeing things and being among you. And I am so interested in the little bit I have seen already. I caught a glimpse of your girls' home on my way from the station. I hope you will take me there.”
Mrs. Holt gave her a quick look, but beheld in Honora's clear eyes only eagerness and ingenuousness.
The change in the elderly lady's own expression, and incidentally in the atmosphere which enveloped her, was remarkable.
“Would you really like to go, my dear?”
“Oh, yes indeed,” cried Honora. “You see, I have heard so much of it, and I should like to write my aunt about it. She is interested in the work you are doing, and she has kept a magazine with an article in it, and a picture of the institution.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed the lady, now visibly pleased. “It is a very modest little work, my dear. I had no idea that—out in St. Louis—that the beams of my little candle had carried so far. Indeed you shall see it, Honora. We will go down the first thing in the morning.”
Mrs. Robert, who had been sitting on the other side of the room, rose abruptly and came towards them. There was something very like a smile on her face—although it wasn't really a smile—as she bent over and kissed her mother-in-law on the cheek.
“I am glad to hear you are interested in—charities, Miss Leffingwell,” she said.
Honora's face grew warm.
“I have not so far had very much to do with them, I am afraid,” she answered.
“How should she?” demanded Mrs. Holt. “Gwendolen, you're not going up already?”
“I have some letters to write,” said Mrs. Robert.
“Gwen has helped me immeasurably,” said Mrs. Holt, looking after the tall figure of her daughter-in-law, “but she has a curious, reserved character. You have to know her, my dear. She is not at all like Susan, for instance.”
Honora awoke the next morning to a melody, and lay for some minutes in a delicious semi-consciousness, wondering where she was. Presently she discovered that the notes were those of a bird on a tree immediately outside of her window—a tree of wonderful perfection, the lower branches of which swept the ground. Other symmetrical trees, of many varieties, dotted a velvet lawn, which formed a great natural terrace above the forested valley of Silver Brook. On the grass, dew-drenched cobwebs gleamed in the early sun, and the breeze that stirred the curtains was charged with the damp, fresh odours of the morning. Voices caught her ear, and two figures appeared in the distance. One she recognized as Mr. Holt, and the other was evidently a gardener. The gilt clock on the mantel pointed to a quarter of seven.
It is far too late in this history to pretend that Honora was, by preference, an early riser, and therefore it must have been the excitement caused by her surroundings that made her bathe and dress with alacrity that morning. A housemaid was dusting the stairs as she descended into the empty hall. She crossed the lawn, took a path through the trees that bordered it, and came suddenly upon an old-fashioned garden in all the freshness of its early morning colour. In one of the winding paths she stopped with a little exclamation. Mr. Holt rose from his knees in front of her, where he had been digging industriously with a trowel. His greeting, when contrasted with his comparative taciturnity at dinner the night before, was almost effusive—and a little pathetic.
“My dear young lady,” he exclaimed, “up so early?” He held up forbiddingly a mould-covered palm. “I can't shake hands with you.”
Honora laughed.
“I couldn't resist the temptation to see your garden,” she said.
A gentle light gleamed in his blue eyes, and he paused before a trellis of June roses. With his gardening knife he cut three of them, and held them gallantly against her white gown. Her sensitive colour responded as she thanked him, and she pinned them deftly at her waist.
“You like gardens?” he said.
“I was brought up with them,” she answered; “I mean,” she corrected herself swiftly, “in a very modest way. My uncle is passionately fond of flowers, and he makes our little yard bloom with them all summer. But of course,” Honora added, “I've never seen anything like this.”
“It has been a life work,” answered Mr. Holt, proudly, “and yet I feel as though I had not yet begun. Come, I will show you the peonies—they are at their best—before I go in and make myself respectable for breakfast.”
Ten minutes later, as they approached the house in amicable and even lively conversation, they beheld Susan and Mrs. Robert standing on the steps under the porte-cochere, watching them.
“Why, Honora,” cried Susan, “how energetic you are! I actually had a shock when I went to your room and found you'd gone. I'll have to write Miss Turner.”
“Don't,” pleaded Honora; “you see, I had every inducement to get up.”
“She has been well occupied,” put in Mr. Holt. “She has been admiring my garden.”
“Indeed I have,” said Honora.
“Oh, then, you have won father's heart!” cried Susan. Gwendolen Holt smiled. Her eyes were fixed upon the roses in Honora's belt.
“Good morning, Miss Leffingwell,” she said, simply.
Mr. Holt having removed the loam from his hands, the whole family, excepting Joshua,