a blue and white check frock, and her hair—Miss Mason at that time wore it in two plaits—had been tied with blue ribbons. Seventeen had been, up to date, the happiest year of her life. But more of that year anon. At twenty-seven she had been allowed the entrance of Miss Stanhope’s library. At thirty-seven she had become the owner of a kitten. At forty-seven Miss Stanhope had given [Pg 17]her the watch she now wore. At fifty-seven a favourite rose-tree had borne the most perfect flowers. Trivial enough facts to form landmarks in a life, yet they formed landmarks in Miss Mason’s.

[Pg 17]

She again looked approvingly at the number. From it she turned to a contemplation of the photographs which adorned the walls. They were the usual kind of photographs found in railway carriages—seaside promenades, ruined castles, lakes with mountains beyond. Miss Mason read the names below them with interest. She looked at the gas-globe in the roof of the carriage, with its black cover which could be drawn over it if the passengers found the light troublesome. She looked at the emergency cord which was to be pulled down to attract the attention of the guard in case of accident. She noted that the penalty for its improper use was five pounds. It seemed to Miss Mason a large sum to pay merely for pulling a little piece of string. She wondered if anyone had ever been bold enough to pull it without necessity.

After gazing at it for two minutes with a certain amount of awe, she put her arm through the padded loop by the window, and looked out at the scenery past which they were flying.

There were fields in which sheep and cows were solemnly munching the fresh grass; there were hedges covered with the fairy snow of the haw[Pg 18]thorn blossoms; there were woods of larches, oaks, and beeches, and among them the darker green of firs; there were streams rippling golden-brown past meadow banks and clumps of rushes; there were children swinging on gates and waving cap or handkerchief as the train rushed by. She saw market carts and occasionally a dogcart on roads running by the railway, and now and then a solitary cyclist, all going at a snail’s pace so it seemed compared with the rate at which she herself was travelling. They passed houses with trimly-kept gardens alive with flowers; cottages with strips of vegetable gardens where from lines attached to posts stuck among the cabbages washing was hung out to dry. The May breeze swung the clothing to and fro, ballooning it momentarily to ridiculous shapes, fluttering red petticoats, white tablecloths, and blue blouses, like the waving of 

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