Philippa

"Her air, her manners, all who saw admired, 
Courteous though coy, and gentle, though retired: 
The joy of youth and health her eyes displayed, 
And ease of heart her every look conveyed."
--CRABBE.

The porter slammed the door with all the unnecessary vehemence usual to his class and touched his hat, a shrill whistle sounded, the great engine gave several vehement not to say petulant snorts, and the long train glided slowly out of the terminus. Gaining speed with every second, it whirled along through the maze of buildings which form the ramparts of London--on past rows of dingy backyards where stunted bushes show no brighter colour than that of the family washing which they support every week--on through the suburbs where the backyards give place to gardens trim or otherwise, and beds of gay flowers supplant the variegated garments--on until at last it reached the open country, spreading fields and shady woodlands, where it seemed to settle to a steady pace that threw the miles behind it, as it rushed forward with mighty throb and roar.

Philippa Harford breathed a sigh of relief at finding herself alone in her compartment, and arranging her belongings round her with the method of an experienced traveller, she settled herself in a corner seat and took up her book. She did not read for long, however, for in a few moments her eyes wandered to the window and there fixed themselves on the swiftly passing landscape. She let her hands fall into her lap and sat thinking.