Had there been a prospectus (which is ridiculous!), the great secret of Miss Turner’s school could not very well have been mentioned in it.  The English language, it is to be feared, is not quite flexible enough to mention this secret with delicacy.  Did Honora know it?  Who can say?  Self-respecting young ladies do not talk about such things, and Honora was nothing if not self-respecting.

“Sutcliffemanors, October 15th.

“Dearest aunt Mary:  As I wrote you, I continue to miss you and Uncle Tom dreadfully,—­and dear old Peter, too; and Cathy and Bridget and Mary Ann.  And I hate to get up at seven o’clock.  And Miss Hood, who takes us out walking and teaches us composition, is such a ridiculously strict old maid—­you would laugh at her.  And the Sundays are terrible.  Miss Turner makes us read the Bible for a whole hour in the afternoon, and reads to us in the evening.  And Uncle Tom was right when he said we should have nothing but jam and bread and butter for supper:  oh, yes, and cold meat.  I am always ravenously hungry.  I count the days until Christmas, when I shall have some really good things to eat again.  And of course I cannot wait to see you all.

“I do not mean to give you the impression that I am not happy here, and I never can be thankful enough to dear Cousin Eleanor for sending me.  Some of the girls are most attractive.  Among others, I have become great friends with Ethel Wing, who is tall and blond and good-looking; and her clothes, though simple, are beautiful.  To hear her imitate Miss Turner or Miss Hood or Dr. Moale is almost as much fun as going to the theatre.  You must have heard of her father—­he is the Mr. Wing who owns all the railroads and other things, and they have a house in Newport and another in New York, and a country place and a yacht.

“I like Sarah Wycliffe very much.  She was brought up abroad, and we lead the French class together.  Her father has a house in Paris, which they only use for a month or so in the year:  an hotel, as the French call it.  And then there is Maude Capron, from Philadelphia, whose father is Secretary of War.  I have now to go to my class in English composition, but I will write to you again on Saturday.

“Your loving niece,

“Honora.”

The Christmas holidays came, and went by like mileposts from the window of an express train.  There was a Glee Club:  there were dances, and private theatricals in Mrs. Dwyer’s new house, in which it was imperative that Honora should take part.  There was no such thing as getting up for breakfast, and once she did not see Uncle Tom for two whole days.  He asked her where she was staying.  It was the first Christmas she remembered spending without Peter.  His present appeared, but perhaps it was fortunate, on the whole, that he was in Texas, trying a case.  It seemed almost no time at all before she was at the station again, clinging to Aunt Mary:  but now the separation was not so hard, and she had Edith and Mary for company, and George, a dignified and responsible sophomore at Harvard.