Passing through the hall Blondine sees Mrs. St. James seated in her parlor, the doors open, with dear Florrie, dear Bessie, dear Nattie, and all the other dears, sitting about consoling the bereaved lady. Arial looks exceedingly handsome in her dress of deep crape. An interesting looking woman at all times, just now she is doubly so, receiving the sympathy of endless numbers of friends over her recent loss. Blondine steps in the room to tell Mrs. St. James of their going, and to say farewell. Not so Dolores; she hurries to her rooms, gives her maid all due instructions concerning luggage, and then speeds away to the pretty burying ground, to pause beside a tiny grave; a broken pillar of granite, with the simple words "My son Roy," marking the resting place of her little lost friend.
Dolores gathers a few forget-me-nots from around the mound—flowers that in after years will remind her of this tiny grave in Italy. Here her resolution is taken to forgive—she cannot forget—two persons whom she firmly believes are at war against her; then with a long, last, lingering glance around, she goes.
Blondine hails the sight of Dolores with joy. Will she just lend a hand for a minute, to see if all is ready? Poor Blondine would never get over the world with doing her own packing is very evident, from the sight that meets Dolores' eyes. Things always contrived to get mixed up so queerly; her best bonnets and boots, the desk with the ink and mucilage bottles, generally reposed calmly upon her most dainty pair of gloves. Now she cannot find her pearl-handled knife, the ivory opera glasses, or her silver nut crackers. Dolores searches around with the eyes of a professional detective, and at length discovers the missing articles in the pocket of Blondine's riding habit; the knife was found in the window sash, where it had been put to keep it from rattling the night before when the wind blew.
The last trunk is strapped, the hasty search around for farewell words to friends (of which there are shoals); the coach is at the door; they are off, going by the famous Cornice route for the last time. Its many scenic beauties will scarcely ever fade from Blondine's admiring eyes; her memory will never fail on that score. Much disgusted is uncle Dick at not having seen "that boy Traleigh," and wonders if he will "turn up," ere they leave; but Traleigh fails to "turn up," greatly to Dolores satisfaction.
Uncle Dick is in high glee, to find that a steamer sails the following morning, and Blondine turns pale when some one suggests to Major Gray that they may look forward to a pretty "tumbly" voyage, as gales seem the proper thing during the past week.
Dolores cheers up at the mention of home, becomes absorbed in purchasing numerous foreign trifles for Zoe, talks learnedly on the wretchedness of foreign cooking, and altogether appears the cheerful, but not gushing Dolores of old.
The passage across was, as predicted, rather inclined to be "tumbly," indeed, at times most uncomfortably so. Blondine declares if Heaven will ever spare her to get on land once more, never would human persuasion entice her across old Atlantic again. Uncle Dick was delighted with the pitch and toss and knock down of the angry waters, and Dolores laughingly declares, "uncle Dick you were born for a sailor but became spoilt in the drilling."