Honor also is now making a steady little income every week by her painting on tin, which has become most popular, especially in the immediate neighbourhood. Besides the stipulated number of landscapes for Mr. Spaull, which are taken up at stated intervals by Mr. Edward Talboys with most elaborate care, Honor has a good many odd orders; for the old gentlemen were so charmed and delighted with the effect of the pretty little scenes that they immediately made a round of calls, with a view to showing their specimen to all their friends and perhaps getting some pupils for their protégé.
The time is now rapidly drawing near when Doris is to join her aunt in town, previous to their departure for the Continent.
The weather having taken a capricious fancy to be extremely hot, in fact more like late July or August than June, the girls sit out-of-doors a great deal with their work and their books.
Although no one speaks openly of it, there is a feeling with them all that Doris cannot be made too much of in these last few days before her long separation from them. Doris's pillow is often wet with the tears which she quietly sheds at night, when she thinks Honor is asleep, at the thought that to-morrow will bring her one day nearer to the parting she so much dreads.
Time marches on, however, in his inexorable fashion, and the last day having really come, all go about their work with an elaborately indifferent air, each one making heroic efforts to keep up for the others' sake. The whole family (with the exception of Mrs. Merivale, who has taken leave of her daughter at home quietly) is now standing by the door of a third-class compartment in the London train, in which Doris, surrounded by small packages, is standing up, with tear-bestreamed face, a large smut on her forehead, and a general limpness which extends itself to the handkerchief in her hand, which just now is doing double duty as it were, as are those of all the others.
Doris has been kissed by each one in turn several times, and the usual last questions have been asked and answered, and now the guard comes along with his key, and having locked the door quietly moves them all back a little; with no lasting result, however, for they are all crowding round again the moment he is gone.
"Are you sure," says Honor with a trembling voice, "that you have got everything?"
"O yes, everything!" answers Doris with a gasp of despair.
Honor looks round incredulously, for each one has been carrying to the station a bag, basket, or something belonging to her sister, and as her careful eye travels round she suddenly pounces on Molly, who is discovered still clinging desperately to Doris's umbrella, her thoughts being entirely taken up with the direful fact that the dreaded moment has indeed arrived at last! The umbrella is handed in through the window, and kissing being now rather a daring thing to attempt after the stentorian "Stand away there!" of the guard, Honor and Molly are reaching up their hands for a final squeeze, when Doris, first feeling wildly in the little pocket of her jacket, then diving after her purse, exclaims:
"Good gracious! my ticket; who's got it? I haven't!"