“Oh, Aunt Mary!” she cried, with her arms tightly locked around her aunt's neck, “how lovely! Did you send all the way to New York for it?”
“No, Honora,” said her aunt, “it didn't come from New York.” Aunt Mary did not explain that this coat had been her one engrossing occupation for six weeks, at such times when Honora was out or tucked away safely in bed.
Perhaps Honora's face fell a little. Aunt Mary scanned it rather anxiously.
“Does that cause you to like it any less, Honora?” she asked.
“Aunt Mary!” exclaimed Honora, in a tone of reproval. And added after a little, “I suppose Mademoiselle made it.”
“Does it make any difference who made it, Honora?”
“Oh, no indeed, Aunt Mary. May I wear it to Cousin Eleanor's to-day?”
“I gave it to you to wear, Honora.”
Not in Honora's memory was there a Christmas breakfast during which Peter Erwin did not appear, bringing gifts. Peter Erwin, of whom we caught a glimpse doing an errand for Uncle Tom in the bank. With the complacency of the sun Honora was wont to regard this most constant of her satellites. Her awakening powers of observation had discovered him in bondage, and in bondage he had been ever since: for their acquaintance had begun on the first Sunday afternoon after Honora's arrival in St. Louis at the age of eighteen months. It will be remembered that Honora was even then a coquette, and as she sat in her new baby-carriage under the pear tree, flirted outrageously with Peter, who stood on one foot from embarrassment.
“Why, Peter,” Uncle Tom had said slyly, “why don't you kiss her?”