"For New York, and after that to Saratoga; Cecilia insists on it, poor, sweet darling."
"For New York?" says I.
"On the way to Saratoga."
"But—but who is going. Is—is—?"
"Why, you and I, Dempster, and that sweet, ill-used child. Would you believe it, that rude boy's father refuses to whip him, and said a girl that could give a black eye with her parasol was—well, I can't find the heart to repeat it. At any rate, she doesn't stay another hour under the same roof with that little fiend."
"But is that all—Oh, tell me is no one else going?" says I feeling as if a ton of lead had been heaped on me.
"Dear me. There is no one else to care for the poor child. Of course, no one will take it up but us. So make haste."
Out she went, leaving me just heart-broken and ready to give up. How could I go? how could I leave him and "the Branch," as if my soul were fleeing from his?
It was of no use. E. E. was set upon going, and I couldn't help myself.
Well, sisters, two hours after I left that bed we had packed up bag and baggage, given a cart-load of trunks for the express-men to smash or carry, just as they liked, and then took a little run of railroad, and a sail in a steamboat so grand and airy, and no ending, that we began to feel sorry that James Fisk was dead, or that his splendid ghost didn't roam along the steamboat track and keep things ship-shape, as he left them.