Summit and the great Sanitarium came next. It was here she had seen her first picture-folk in action. A little tightening of lip and heart—lest any atom of courage escape—then the train moved on.
West Summit—a cross-roads, no more. And after a little while, Whitewater.
She got out with her suitcase, her books, illustrated papers, bon-bons, fruit, and flowers. A number of people looked twice at her to be certain before speaking. Men looked oftener, shy of speaking.
She returned greetings smilingly, exchanged commonplaces when necessary, aware but indifferent to the curiosity visible in every face.
There was a new bus driver. She gave him the baggage-check, got into the vehicle with hand luggage, flowers, books, periodicals, bon-bons, and fruit.
Two commercial men bound for Whitewater Inn were inclined to assiduous politeness. She remained scarcely aware of them. She exchanged salutations with Gumbert, the butcher, who got off at his shop. Otherwise, her fellow travellers were unknown to her and unnoticed.
It was a mile to Whitewater Farms.
The country looked very lovely. It had rained that morning; grass and foliage were fresh; gullies still ran water; brooks gurgled bank high.
The sun, low in a cloudless sky, flung rosy rays across green uplands and here and there a few acres of early stubble. Trees cast long bluish shadows. Cattle were beginning to wander toward the home-lane. It would be near milking time at Whitewater Farms.
And now, leaning wide of her window in the clumsy bus, she could see the gilded weather-cock a-glitter on the main barn and swallows circling above brick chimneys.