Nelly gave the doll up without a word, and her kind papa rolled the little waterproof cloak tight round the body and arms; then he doubled up the blue veil and pinned it many thicknesses thick all round the head; and then he took a clean dark-blue and white silk handkerchief of his own and put outside all the veil, and made it into a snug little parcel, that nobody would have known was a dolly at all.
"There, Nelly," he said, putting it in her lap, "there is dolly, all rolled up, so that nobody can look at her."
Nelly took the sad little bundle, and laid it across her knees.
"Can she ever be mended, papa?" she said.
"No, dear, I think not," said Mr. March; "I think the sooner you put her out of your sight the better; but now we must go into the cars."
Poor Nelly! she walked slowly along, carrying the blue and white package as if it were a coffin,—as indeed it was, a kind of coffin, for a very dead dolly.
As they were going into the car, Mr. March said to his wife:—
"There is no drawing-room in the sleeping-car which goes through to-day. I have had to take two sections."
Mrs. March had never travelled in a sleeping-car before, and she did not know how much nicer the little room was than the "sections." So she replied: "They'll do just as well, won't they?"
"I think you will not like them quite so well," replied Mr. March; "you cannot be by yourself with the children. But it is only for one night; we will make the best of it. There are our sections, one right opposite the other; so you will not have strangers opposite you."