There was no parlour car.  Men and women—­mostly women—­with bundles were already appropriating the seats and racks, and Honora found herself wondering how many of these individuals were her future neighbours.  That there might have been an hysterical element in the lively anticipation she exhibited during the journey did not occur to Howard Spence.

After many stops,—­in forty-two minutes, to be exact, the brakeman shouted out the name of the place which was to be her home, and of which she had been ignorant that morning.  They alighted at an old red railroad station, were seized upon by a hackman in a coonskin coat, and thrust into a carriage that threatened to fall to pieces on the frozen macadam road.  They passed through a village in which Honora had a glimpse of the drug store and grocery and the Grand Army Hall; then came detached houses of all ages in one and two-acre plots some above the road, for the country was rolling; a very attractive church of cream-coloured stone, and finally the carriage turned sharply to the left under an archway on which were the words “Stafford Park,” and stopped at a very new curbstone in a very new gutter on the right.

“Here we are!” cried Howard, as he fished in his trousers pockets for money to pay the hackman.

Honora looked around her.  Stafford Park consisted of a wide centre-way of red gravel, not yet packed, with an island in its middle planted with shrubbery and young trees, the bare branches of which formed a black tracery against the orange-red of the western sky.  On both sides of this centre-way were concrete walks, with cross-walks from the curbs to the houses.  There were six of these—­three on each side—­standing on a raised terrace and about two hundred feet apart.  Beyond them, to the northward, Stafford Park was still a wilderness of second-growth hardwood, interspersed with a few cedars.

Honora’s house, the first on the right, was exactly like the other five.  If we look at it through her eyes, we shall find this similarity its main drawback.  If we are a little older, however, and more sophisticated, we shall suspect the owner of Stafford Park and his architect of a design to make it appear imposing.  It was (indefinite and much-abused term) Colonial; painted white; and double, with dormer windows of diagonal wood-surrounded panes in the roof.  There was a large pillared porch on its least private side—­namely, the front.  A white-capped maid stood in the open doorway and smiled at Honora as she entered.

Honora walked through the rooms.  There was nothing intricate about the house; it was as simple as two times four, and really too large for her and Howard.  Her presents were installed, the pictures and photograph frames and chairs, even Mr. Isham’s dining-room table and Cousin Eleanor’s piano.  The sight of these, and of the engraving which Aunt Mary had sent on, and which all her childhood had hung over her bed in the little room at home, brought the tears once more to her eyes.  But she forced them back bravely.