While speaking he had let down the steps and helped the three children
up--they were to ride with Laura to the outskirts of the township. The
little boys giggled excitedly at his assertion that the horses would not
be equal to the weight. Only Pin wept on, in undiminished grief.

"Now, Miss Laura."

"Now, Laura. Good-bye, darling. And do try and be good. And be sure you
write once a week. And tell me everything. Whether you are happy--and
if you get enough to eat--and if you have enough blankets on your bed.
And remember always to change your boots if you get your feet wet. And
don't lean out of the window in the train."

For some time past Laura had had need of all her self-control,
not to cry before the children. As the hour drew near it had grown
harder and harder; while dressing, she had resorted to counting the
number of times the profile of a Roman emperor appeared in the flowers
on the wallpaper. Now the worst moment of all was come--the moment of
good-bye. She did not look at Pin, but she heard her tireless, snuffly
weeping, and set her own lips tight.

"Yes, mother . . . no, mother," she answered shortly, "I'll be all right.
Good-bye." She could not, however, restrain a kind of dry sob, which
jumped up her throat.

When she was in the coach Sarah, whom she had forgotten climbed up to
kiss her; and there was some joking between O'Donnell and the servant
while the steps were being folded and put away. Laura did not smile; her
thin little face was very pale. Mother's heart went out to her in a pity
which she did not know how to express.