“Hush!” Mrs. Damian’s tone was kindly, but final. “No tears or tantrums! Nothing of the sort. The Sister will explain all. Kiss her, and say good-by!”
All their mirth gone in a moment, the girls flocked round Honor, with tears, embraces, broken words of affection.
“Don’t forget me, little thing!” whispered Patricia. “You’ve done a lot for me, though you don’t know it. Au revoir in New York some day!”
“Moriole,” cried Stephanie, “my heart breaks! I perish!”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Damian.
“Compose thyself, my child!” said Soeur Séraphine. “This is the inevitable, to which we must bow. Adieu, Honor! The good God be with thee, little beloved one!”
“Adieu! Adieu, Moriole! Do not forget us! Come back to us!”
They were all at the door now, clustering like bees, waving hands and handkerchiefs. Looking back for the last time, Honor saw Soeur Séraphine’s face, with its heavenly smile of patience and kindness. She smiled back bravely; the carriage started, rolled swiftly on.
What followed was all like a dream. The station agleam with lights; the train standing panting in slow, regular breaths, ready for the start; the guard’s cry, “In the carriage, gentlemen and ladies, if you please!”; the smiling porter who took possession of them and their belongings, even the precious dressing-bag, to which Honor would fain have clung. Here it was, though, a moment later, in this little fairy-like cabin with its two white berths, one above the other.
“Folly prefers the upper berth,” said Mrs. Damian. “I can’t imagine why, unless from mongoosiness. Good night, child! Sleep well! Remember, the train will say anything you want it to say. Try ‘good luck’!”