But her parted lips, distended nostrils, and the light in her eyes bore witness to that strange power which hill country sways over hill-born people.

To me it was beautiful, but to her it was home.

I better understood now, too, her old complaints of the sheltered (she called it _stuffy_) lane in which we walked two and two when we "went into the country" at school.

She used to rave against the park palings that hedged us in on either side, and declare her longing to tear them up and let a little air in, or at least to be herself somewhere where "one could see a few miles about one, and breathe some wind." As we stood now, drinking in the breeze, I think the same thought struck us both, and we exclaimed with one voice: "Poor Matilda! How she would have enjoyed this!" We next stopped at a rather dreary-looking station, where we got out, and Eleanor got our luggage together, aided by a porter who seemed to know her, and whom she seemed to understand, though his dialect was unintelligible to me.
"I suppose we must have a cab," said Eleanor, at last.

"They don't expect us." "_Tommusisinttarn_," said the porter suggestively; which, being interpreted, meant, "Thomas is in the town." "To be sure, for the meat," said Eleanor.