As they passed the gate of her own home, Eleanor hugged Ada closer and looking up at her uncle said, "I never want to see my home again, Uncle Heath, until mamma is in it."
He smiled down at her. "You probably will not, dear child. We shall keep you with us as long as we can."
"I hope there won't be any children in the cars," continued the child, "for I might give them the whooping-cough."
"We are going to have the little compartment at the end of the parlor car, and we can be all to ourselves in there."
"Oh, can we? I've always wanted to travel in that little room, Uncle Heath. Did you get it on purpose?"
"Not exactly, but being a railroad man, I had it placed at my disposal."
It was nearly dark when they reached the city. Eleanor looked out at the stiff rows of houses, secretly glad that her home was not in one of these. She did not wonder that her Cousin Florence always said that she could not bear the city. "Uncle Heath," she said, "are all cities like Baltimore, with so many, many houses all alike, with no gardens at all and hardly any trees anywhere? I don't see why they can't have a little bit of a garden in front of them, or porches to the houses, or something. Cities are very ugly, aren't they?"
"Most of them are, but some do have a section where you can see pretty gardens and porches and many trees. Washington, you know, is very attractive, and so are parts of Philadelphia."
"Yes, I know Washington is, but I most forget Philadelphia, I've not been there for so long."
"We must go there some pleasant day."