The Colonel was looking a shade more elegant even than usual, in a large cloak, which hung gracefully round his tall, erect form. There was their luggage all ticketed and piled up, all of home that could be packed into trunks; and Kate felt singularly desolate at the idea of being thus, for the first time, without any sanctuary, however humble, to which, as to an ark, she might retreat, when the fountains of the great deep, of sorrow or of disappointment, were broken up; and Mrs. Winter was there with a well-packed basket of sandwiches, and wine and water; but poor Gilpin had been so unwell since his imprudent visit to the Priory, that he had been obliged to leave the Winters to do the parting honours, alone, to their valued friends. Nor can we omit to mention Mrs. O'Toole, who, in a black silk bonnet, snowy cap, and substantial cloth cloak, albeit it was early June, looked the very model of a respectable old family-servant; over one arm hung Miss Vernon's shawl, and, in her left hand, she carried a blue band-box, containing divers and sundry articles thrust into it, at the last moment, and secured by a red silk handkerchief.
"Yes," returned Winter, in reply to Kate's observation, "we were a merry trio; but we little anticipated the adventure you contrived to get up."
"It was all very curious," said Kate, with a sigh, as her thoughts flew back to that pleasant evening, and its still pleasanter dénouément.
A shrill, piercing whistle! The porters stood, not to their arms, but to their trunks.
"Up-train coming," said one of them, warningly, to our little party.
"Now then, don't be in a hurry, Colonel—get the tickets all right," said Winter; and the huge, hissing, relentless monster of an engine, rushed panting by the platform. "Do you get in and settle yourselves, Colonel; Mrs. O'Toole and I will see to the luggage."
The Colonel obeyed; but Kate stood by the carriage door. Winter soon bustled back, and in more than usually husky tones, observed—
"All right—there goes the bell."
"Dearest Mrs. Winter," cried Kate, clasping that worthy little woman in her arms; "good bye;" and the tears she had long, with difficulty, restrained, poured down her cheeks; then turning to the kind, rough artist, she, somewhat to his surprise, bestowed an equally affectionate embrace on him, with such childlike simplicity and sincere feeling, that he was inexpressibly touched. "My kind love to Mr. Gilpin; and, I need hardly say, take care of Cormac."