Hilda gazing after it through a mist which only her strong will
prevented from dissolving in tears.

"Well, my dear," said Dame Hartley's cheery voice, "your papa's gone,
and you must not stand here and fret after him. Here is old Nancy
shaking her head, and wondering why she does not get home to her dinner.
Do you get into the cart, and I will get the station-master to put your
trunk in for us."

Hilda obeyed in silence; and climbing into the neat wagon, took her seat
and looked about her while Dame Hartley bustled off in search of the
station-master. There was not very much to look at at Glenfield station.
The low wooden building with its long platform stood on a bare spot of
ground, from which the trees all stood back, as if to mark their
disapproval of the railway and all that belonged to it. The sandy soil
made little attempt to produce vegetation, but put out little humps of
rock occasionally, to show what it could do. Behind, a road led off into
the woods, hiding itself behind the low-hanging branches of chestnut and
maple, ash and linden trees. That was all. Now that the train was gone,
the silence was unbroken save by the impatient movements of the old
white mare as she shook the flies off and rattled the jingling harness.

Hilda was too weary to think. She had slept little the night before, and
the suddenness of the recent changes confused her mind and made her feel
as if she were some one else, and not herself at all. She sat patiently,
counting half-unconsciously each quiver of Nancy's ears. But now Dame
Hartley came bustling back with the station-master, and between the two,
Hilda's trunk was hoisted into the cart. Then the good woman climbed in
over the wheel, settled her ample person on the seat and gathered up the
reins, while the station-master stood smoothing the mare's mane, ready