"Dear Jerry, I cannot bear to say good-bye to you," exclaimed Ellen, with emotion. "But I will write to you as often as ever I can, and tell you all that I think you will like to hear. And you'll be sure to write to me, won't you, when you feel well enough?"
"Yes, I'll try to write, Nelly; but you know I'm not much of a hand at that sort of thing."
"Never mind what a scribble it is; I'll make it out somehow, never fear. I shall be only too glad to see your writing, whatever it looks like."
They would have said much more to each other, but Mrs. Mansfield's voice was now heard from below, bidding Ellen make haste, or she would not get to the distant station in time for the train. The brother and sister fondly but silently embraced, for both felt a choking sensation that made words almost impossible. And then Ellen tore herself away and ran downstairs. The light cart stood at the door with her small trunk already placed in it, and her father was waiting to drive her to the station.
Now that the moment of departure had come, Ellen found that it was more trying to leave her home than she had anticipated. She fairly broke down and cried heartily as she kissed her little brothers and sisters, and received her mother's last anxious injunctions with respect to her health and conduct. Willy had gathered a huge bunch of flowers for his sister as a parting gift, and little Johnny a few strawberries, and all had so much to say that Ellen would certainly have missed her train had she stayed to listen to them. Her father was obliged hastily to cut short the farewells, place her in the cart, and drive off without any more ado.
Ellen felt sad as she drove away, waving her hand to her brothers and sisters clustered at the gate, and her mother, who stood at the door with the baby in her arms. But she soon ceased to cry, and began to take a cheerful view of the separation. Her mind was busy with thoughts of the pleasant future which she imagined lay before her as they drove through the country lanes, between fields of ripening corn, or meadows still covered with sweet-scented hay.
"Good-bye, my lass," said her father, kissing her affectionately, as she sat in a third-class carriage, with her ticket for Charmouth in her hand. "Be a good girl, and try to please your aunt. Your father will be right glad to see you whenever you can come home."
The whistle sounded, and Ellen waved a last good-bye to her father as the train glided out of the station. She was off at last, as she had so often longed to be, going away from the irksome duties and restraints of a home which was after all, dearer to her than she had hitherto imagined, to new scenes and fresh employment, which she believed would prove less distasteful.
She was nearly two hours getting to Charmouth, although it was no great distance, for the train jogged along in a leisurely sort of way, stopping at all the little country stations, whose officials never seem to hurry themselves to secure its speedy departure. And, besides, she had to wait half an hour at a junction on the way. The morning had been bright and sunshiny when she started, but as she went along, she observed dark clouds gathering in the sky, and when she reached Charmouth it was raining heavily.
She had expected that her aunt would either come herself or send some one to meet her; but, to her dismay, when she alighted from the train, she found there was no one there. She stood alone on the platform amidst the bustle and confusion created by the arrival of the train, and which was so bewildering to one accustomed to the quietude of country life, and wondered what she had better do. She watched her fellow-travellers as they hurriedly collected their luggage, and, some in conveyances, some on foot, took their departure from the station.