opening and a closing of the heavy front door—an arched door of thick oak, bound with iron and studded with nails—that was hardly seemly. The door had been flung open and it had been slammed shut. Following a blast of cold outdoor air appeared the comely faces of Ruth and Sarah, and behind them the less colorful and noticeable faces of James and Mark.
"Your train must have been a few minutes late, my darling," said Mrs. Eaton, whose eyebrows, threateningly raised upon the slamming of the front door, had settled to their normal position. "And perhaps that was why you were in such an indecorous hurry to get into the house."
"Dear Mother," said Ruth, who, now that John was gone, was the eldest, "it must have been very late, because we ran all the way from the station. We are all here except John. He was with us at Westchester in plenty of time to catch the train, but we think that somehow he must have missed it."
Mrs. Eaton continued her untroubled and rapid stitching.
"It is difficult to understand," she said, "how, if you were all at the station in plenty of time to catch the train, John could have missed it. But there is another train in half an hour, so that we shall not have to wait dinner for him. I shall
