he journey.”

    “t bid good-bye for a little while?”

    “I suppose so, sir.”

    “And  ceremony of parting, Jane? teac quite up to it.”

    “they prefer.”

    “t.”

    “Fare.”

    “ must I say?”

    “the same, if you like, sir.”

    “Fare; is t all?”

    “Yes?”

    “It seems stingy, to my notions, and dry, and unfriendly. I stle addition to te. If one sance; but no—t  content me eithan say Farewell, Jane?”

    “It is enougy word as in many.”

    “Very likely; but it is blank and cool—‘Farewell.’”

    “o stand  t door?” I asked myself; “I  to commence my packing.” ted,  anothe morning.

    I reac Gates five o’clock in ternoon of t of May: I stepped in to t : tal le ains; tless; te and fire-irons  clear. Bessie sat on t-born, and Robert and er played quietly in a corner.

    “Bless you!—I kneered.

    “Yes, Bessie,” said I, after I rust I am not too late. ill, I hope.”

    “Yes, sed tor says s; but hinks she will finally recover.”

    “ioned me lately?”

    “Salking of you only t sen minutes ago, ernoon, and  six or seven. ill you rest yourself h you?”

    Robert ered, and Bessie laid  to aking off my bonnet and ea; for sired. I o accept ality; and I submitted to be relieved of my travelling garb just as passively as I used to let her undress me when a child.

    Old times cro back on me as I cling about— setting out tea-tray  cting bread and butter, toasting a tea-cake, and, betle Robert or Jane an occasional