“P.S.--I hope Ben is well, and that he will take to her.” Honor had also written home announcing her arrival, dwelling on her aunt’s kindness, and making the best of everything, knowing that long extracts from her letter would be read aloud to inquiring friends. She felt dreadfully home-sick, as she penned her cheerful epistle. How she wished that she could put herself into the envelope, and find herself once more in that bright but faded drawing-room, with its deep window-seats, cosy chairs, and tinkling cottage piano. Every vase and bowl would be crammed with spring flowers. Jessie would be pouring out tea, whilst her mother was telling her visitors that she had had a nice long letter from Honor, who was in raptures with India, and as happy as the day was long! She took particular care that her tears did not fall upon the paper, as she penned this deceitful effusion. It was dreadful not to see one familiar face or object. This new world looked so wide, and so strange. She felt lost in the immense bedroom in which she was writing--with its bare lofty walls, matted floor, and creaking punkah. A nondescript dog from the stables had stolen in behind one of the door chicks. She called to it, eager to make friends. Surely dogs were dogs the whole world over!--but the creature did not understand what she said, simply stared interrogatively and slunk away. She saw many novel sights, as she drove in the cool of the evening in Mrs. Hodson’s roomy landau, along the broad planted roads of Allahabad, and watched the bheesties watering the scorching white dust, which actually appeared to steam and bubble; she beheld rattling ekkas, crammed with passengers, and drawn by one wicked-looking, ill-used pony; orderlies on trotting camels; fat native gentlemen in broughams, lean and pallid English sahibs in dog-carts. It was extremely warm; the so-called “evening breeze” consisted of puffs of hot wind, with a dash of sand. Most of the Allahabad ladies were already on the hills. Mrs. Brande was far too well-seasoned an Anglo-Indian not to appreciate the wisdom of travelling in comfort. She had her own servants in attendance, and plenty of pillows, fans, ice, fruit, and eau-de-Cologne; far be it from _her_ to journey with merely a hand-bag and parasol! Honor in a comfortable corner, with several down cushions at her back, and a book on her knee, sat staring out on the unaccustomed prospect that seemed to glide slowly past the carriage windows. Here was a different country to that which she had already traversed: great tracts of grain, poppies, and sugar cane, pointed to the principal products of the North West. She was resolved to see and note everything--even to the white waterfowl, and the long-legged cranes which lounged among the marshes--so as to be able to write full details in the next home letter.