Of course that lady had kept up with the times, and if her old house was finer than anything Mrs. Lennox had ever seen, what must her new one be, with all the modern improvements? and leaning her head upon the mantel, Mrs. Lennox thought how proud she should be could she live to see her daughter in similar circumstances to the envied Mrs. Woodhull, at that moment in the crowded car between Boston and Silverton, tired, hot, and dusty, and as nearly cross as a fashionable lady can be. A call from Uncle Ephraim roused her, and going out into the square entry she tied his linen cravat, and then handing him the blue umbrella, an appendage he took with him in sunshine and in storm, she watched him as he stepped into his one-horse wagon and drove briskly away in the direction of the depot, where he was to meet his niece. “I wish Cousin Morris had offered his carriage,” she thought, as the corn-colored wagon disappeared from view. “The train stops five minutes at West Silverton, and some of those grand people will be likely to see the turnout,” and with a sigh as she doubted whether it were not a disgrace as well as an inconvenience to be poor, she repaired to the kitchen, where sundry savory smells betokened a plentiful dinner. Bending over the sink, with her cap strings tucked back, her sleeves rolled up, and her short purple calico shielded from harm by her broad check apron, Aunt Betsy stood cleaning the silvery onions, and occasionally wiping her dim old eyes as the odor proved too strong for her. At another table stood Aunt Hannah, deep in the mysteries of the light white crust which was to cover the tender chicken boiling in the pot, while in the oven bubbled and baked the custard pie, remembered as Katy’s favorite, and prepared for her coming by Helen herself—plain-spoken, dark-eyed Helen—now out in the strawberry beds, picking the few luscious berries which almost by a miracle had been coaxed to wait for Katy, who loved them so dearly. Like her mother, Helen had wondered how the change would impress her bright little sister, for she remembered that even to her obtuse perceptions there had come a pang when after only three months abiding in a place where the etiquette of life was rigidly enforced, she had returned to their homely ways at Silverton, and felt that it was worse than vain to try to effect a change. But Helen’s strong sense, with the help of two or three good cries, had carried her safely through, and her humble home among the hills was very dear to her now. But she was Helen, as the mother had said; she was different from Katy, who might be lonely and homesick, sobbing herself to sleep in her patient sister’s arms, as she did on that first night in Canandaigua, which Helen remembered so well.