Moshier gowns and having curtain-less windows. Never!"

Honora stood a moment there in the dim hall, thinking. In her eyes
brooded a curiously patient light.

"Do you remember all the trumpery I used to have on my toilet-table?"
she demanded. "I sent it to Mary Morrison. They say she looks like me."

She put her hand on the dining-room door and they entered. The others
were there before them. There were growing primroses on the table, and
the sunlight streamed in at the window. A fire crackled on the hearth;
and Mrs. Dennison, in her old-fashioned widow's cap, sat smiling at the
head of her table.

Kate knew it was not really home, but she had to admit that these busy
undomestic moderns had found a good substitute for it: or, at least,
that, taking their domesticity through the mediumship of Mrs. Dennison,
they contrived to absorb enough of it to keep them going. But, no, it
was not really home. Kate could not feel that she, personally, ever had
been "home." She thought of that song of songs, "The Wanderer."

"Where art thou? Where art thou, O home so dear?"

She was thinking of this still as, her salutation over, she seated
herself in the chair Dr. von Shierbrand placed for her.

"Busy thinking this morning, Miss Barrington?" Mrs. Dennison asked
gently. "That tells me you're meaning to do some good thing to-day. I
can't say how splendid you social workers seem to us common folks."