"Don't forget your sandwiches. And when you're alone, feel in the pocket
of your ulster and you'll find something nice. Good-bye, darling."

"Good-bye . . . good-bye."

The driver had mounted to his seat, he unwound the reins cried "Get up!"
to the two burly horses, the vehicle was set in motion and trundled down
the main street. Until it turned the corner by the Shire Gardens, Laura
let her handkerchief fly from the window. Sarah waved hers; then wiped
her eyes and lustily blew her nose. Mother only sighed.

"It was all she could do to keep up," she said as much to herself
as to Sarah. "I do hope she'll be all right. She seems such a child to be
sending off like this. Yet what else could I do? To a State School, I've
always said it, my children shall never go--not if I have to beg the
money to send them elsewhere."

But she sighed again, in spite of the energy of her words, and stood
gazing at the place where the coach had disappeared. She was still a
comparatively young woman, and straight of body; but trouble, poverty
and night-watches had scored many lines on her forehead.

"Don't you worry," said Sarah. "Miss Laura'll be all right. She's just a
bit too clever--brains for two, that's what it is. An' children WILL
grow up an' get big . . . an' change their feathers." She spoke
absently, drawing her metaphor from a brood of chickens which had
strayed across the road, and was now trying to mount the wooden verandah
-"Shooh! Get away with you!"