"They were checked to Riverton, I know, and I presume they were put on the right train," said Frank. "Father will wonder more than ever when he sees them come without us."
"I don't believe the trunks will stop at Riverton," said Ned, who seemed bent upon taking the most desponding view of everything. "I don't believe we shall ever see them again!"
"What a croaker you are, Ned!" returned Herbert. "What is the use of making the worst of everything? Matters are bad enough without making them worse by grumbling. I wonder if you are the boy who was always wishing for adventures?"
"I think it is much pleasanter to read about adventures than to be in them," observed Agatha, in her simple, grave way.
The scholar, who was still sitting opposite to the children, smiled at the remark. "I think you are quite right," said he. "Adventures, in general, are pleasanter in the reading than in the experience."
"I don't call this an adventure!" said Ned, sulkily.
"What is your idea of an adventure?" asked the scholar.
"An adventure is—why, when something very unexpected and strange happens to people," replied Ned, rather at a loss for a definition.
"Then I am sure this answers the description exactly," said Herbert, "for nothing could have been more unexpected than finding ourselves snowed up on the New York railroad on Christmas eve."
"I was once caught in a terrible storm on the Mediterranean," said the scholar. "Three of us were travelling together and had hired a boat for a cruise among the Greek Islands. We were enjoying ourselves very much, despite the discomforts of our boat, when one of those sudden storms called white squalls came up. For many hours we were in the greatest peril. The Greek sailors gave themselves up for lost, and, after their usual fashion in danger, they left the vessel to take care of itself, while they wept and swore by turns, and prayed to all the saints I ever heard of and a great many more."