Produced by David Widger
By Winston Churchill
Lying back in the chair of the Pullman and gazing over the wide Hudsonshining in the afternoon sun, Honora's imagination ran riot until theseeming possibilities of life became infinite. At every click of therails she was drawing nearer to that great world of which she haddreamed, a world of country houses inhabited by an Olympian order. To besure, Susan, who sat reading in the chair behind her, was but a humblerepresentative of that order—but Providence sometimes makes use of suchinstruments. The picture of the tall and brilliant Ethel Wing standingbehind the brass rail of the platform of the car was continuallyrecurring to Honora as emblematic: of Ethel, in a blue tailor-made gowntrimmed with buff braid, and which fitted her slender figure withmilitary exactness. Her hair, the colour of the yellowest of gold, in themanner of its finish seemed somehow to give the impression of that metal;and the militant effect of the costume had been heightened by a smallcolonial cocked hat. If the truth be told, Honora had secretly idealizedMiss Wing, and had found her insouciance, frankness, and tendency toridicule delightful. Militant—that was indeed Ethel's note—militantand positive.
"You're not going home with Susan!" she had exclaimed, making a littleface when Honora had told her. "They say that Silverdale is as slow as anunnery—and you're on your knees all the time. You ought to have come toNewport with me."
It was characteristic of Miss Wing that she seemed to have taken noaccount of the fact that she had neglected to issue this alluringinvitation. Life at Silverdale slow! How could it be slow amidst suchbeauty 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 thewestern hills. Susan had touched her on the shoulder.
"Here we are, Honora," she said, and added, with an unusual tremor in hervoice, "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 itssleepy streets and its orchards, and its ancient tavern dating fromstage-coach days. Just outside of it, on the tree-dotted slope of a longhill, was a modern brick building, exceedingly practical in appearance,surrounded by spacious grounds enclosed in a paling fence. That, Susansaid, was the Sutton Home.
"Your mother's charity?"
A light came into the girl's eyes.
"So you have heard of it? Yes, it is the, thing that interests mothermore than anything else in the world."
"Oh," said Honora, "I hope she will let me go through it."
"I'm sure she will want to take you there to-morrow," answered Susan, andshe smiled.
The road wound upwards, by the valley of a brook, through the hills, nowwooded, now spread with pastures that shone golden green in the eveninglight, the herds gathering at the gate-bars. Presently they came to agothic-looking stone building, with a mediaeval bridge thrown across thestream in front of it, and massive gates flung open. As they passed,Honora had a glimpse of a blue driveway under the arch of the forest. Anelderly woman looked out at them through the open half of a leadedlattice.
"That's the Chamberlin estate," Susan volunteered. "