Let us, if we can, reconstruct an August day when all (or nearly all) of Honora’s small friends were gone eastward to the mountains or the seaside.  In “the little house under the hill,” the surface of which was a hot slate roof, Honora would awake about seven o’clock to find old Catherine bending over her in a dun-coloured calico dress, with the light fiercely beating against the closed shutters that braved it so unflinchingly throughout the day.

“The birds are before ye, Miss Honora, honey, and your uncle waterin’ his roses this half-hour.”

Uncle Tom was indeed an early riser.  As Honora dressed (Catherine assisting as at a ceremony), she could see him, in his seersucker coat, bending tenderly over his beds; he lived enveloped in a peace which has since struck wonder to Honora’s soul.  She lingered in her dressing, even in those days, falling into reveries from which Catherine gently and deferentially aroused her; and Uncle Tom would be carving the beefsteak and Aunt Mary pouring the coffee when she finally arrived in the dining room to nibble at one of Bridget’s unforgettable rolls or hot biscuits.  Uncle Tom had his joke, and at quarter-past eight precisely he would kiss Aunt Mary and walk to the corner to wait for the ambling horse-car that was to take him to the bank.  Sometimes Honora went to the corner with him, and he waved her good-by from the platform as he felt in his pocket for the nickel that was to pay his fare.

When Honora returned, Aunt Mary had donned her apron, and was industriously aiding Mary Ann to wash the dishes and maintain the customary high polish on her husband’s share of the Leffingwell silver which, standing on the side table, shot hither and thither rays of green light that filtered through the shutters into the darkened room.  The child partook of Aunt Mary’s pride in that silver, made for a Kentucky great-grandfather Leffingwell by a famous Philadelphia silversmith three-quarters of a century before.  Honora sighed.

“What’s the matter, Honora?” asked Aunt Mary, without pausing in her vigorous rubbing.

“The Leffingwells used to be great once upon a time, didn’t they, Aunt Mary?”

“Your Uncle Tom,” answered Aunt Mary, quietly, “is the greatest man I know, child.”

“And my father must have been a great man, too,” cried Honora, “to have been a consul and drive coaches.”

Aunt Mary was silent.  She was not a person who spoke easily on difficult subjects.

“Why don’t you ever talk to me about my father, Aunt Mary?  Uncle Tom does.”

“I didn’t know your father, Honora.”

“But you have seen him?”

“Yes,” said Aunt Mary, dipping her cloth into the whiting; “I saw him at my wedding.  But he was very, young.”

“What was he like?” Honora demanded.  “He was very handsome, wasn’t he?”

’Yes, child.”

“And he had ambition, didn’t he, Aunt Mary?”

Aunt Mary paused.  Her eyes were troubled as she looked at Honora, whose head was thrown back.