“Loads of time, Cis,” said Tom. “However, we may as well mosey along. No use putting off amputation; hurts any time.” He picked up Cicely’s suitcase, went outside, pulling his hat down over his eyes, to wait with a gloomy face while Cis bade good-bye to his mother and the rest of his family. “Rotten! No sense in her going!” muttered Tom under his breath. At the station there were many others waiting to see Cicely Adair on her way. Young Tom had no chance for a tender leave-taking, for which Cis was devoutly grateful. Now that the time to go had come, Cis found herself moved by the parting. After all, one’s native place and lifelong acquaintances mean a great deal, even to self-confident youth. Cis wrapped little Nan in a close embrace and her bright eyes were dimmed by the tears which did not fall; Cis was not a crying girl. Nan wept aloud, in spite of Cis’s promise to return. “You’ll never come back, not the same, anyway. We’re too young to part and join on again without changes,” sobbed Nan, unexpectedly far-seeing. Cis settled into her seat next the window with a long breath of relief; she disliked feeling emotionally upset, it puzzled her and offended her with herself; she was unaccustomed to distress of mind. She took off her small close hat, rumpled her bright locks which it had flattened, and leaned her head against the window to watch obliquely as long as she could see them, those whom she was leaving. Then, when the last handkerchief and waving straw hat had been lost to view, Cis burrowed in her hand-bag for a tiny powder box and puff, held up a small mirror and dusted her eyelids and the tip of her nose, restored the vanity articles to their place, pulled a magazine from the straps of the suitcase at her feet, selected the box of candy of the five beside her which promised her keenest pleasure, and settled herself for the journey to New York. If there were no use in crying over spilled milk, neither was there any use in spilling tears over partings which she herself had chosen should occur. It was half after four that afternoon when Cis found herself being pulled slowly into the station of the city which she had selected as the scene of her winter residence, chiefly on the whimsical ground that it spelled its name Beaconhite when it obviously should have been Beaconheight. There was a better approach to this small city of some hundred thousand inhabitants than is commonly found along railway tracks, and the station, with its roofed-over platforms covering outlying tracks, and flower beds along its banks at either end, was attractive. “You look quite spiffy, Beaconhite, my dear, but handsome is as handsome does; we’ll wait to find out what you do to me!” thought Cis, playing with herself after her usual fashion.