up the white mountain road toward a far-away grove of pines. I knew
then what had happened. They were taking the children's mother to the
cemetery, and they would have to go home without her. "Poor children,"
I thought, "and poor old great-aunt Patricia."

The next evening I heard the old gentleman tell David to bring Matches
and me into the house. The next thing I knew I was dropped into a big
bandbox with holes in the lid, and somebody was buckling a
shawl-strap around it. Then I heard the old gentleman say to Doctor
Tremont, "Tom, I don't want to add to the inconveniences of your
journey, but I should like to send these monkeys along to help amuse
the boys. Maybe they'll be some comfort to them. Dago is for Stuart,
and Matches is for Phil. It would be a good idea to keep them in their
boxes to-night on the sleeping-car. They are unusually well behaved
little animals, but it would be safer to keep them shut up until the
boys are awake to look after them."

You can imagine my feelings when I realised that I was to be sent
away. I shrieked and chattered with rage, but no one paid any
attention to me. I was obliged to settle down in my box in sulky
silence. In a little while I could feel myself being carried down the
porch steps. Then the carriage door slammed and we jolted along in the
dark for a long time. I knew when we reached the depot by the bright
light streaming through the holes in my box-lid. I was carried up the
steps into the sleeping-car, and for the next quarter of an hour it
seemed to me that my box changed position every two minutes. The
porter was getting us settled for the night He was about to poke the
box that held me under the berth where little Elsie and her nurse were
to sleep, when Stuart called him from the berth above, into which he
had just climbed. So I was tossed up as if I had been an ordinary