"This time to-morrow night we'll all be dying of the blues. Thank goodness, here's Hannah with some tea—I'm starving," said Nancy, springing up to take the tray from the hands of the fat old woman, who had just made her appearance, her full, solemn red face looming behind the teapot.
They all gathered around the fire, Nancy and Alma settling cross-legged on the floor, and immediately opening a disastrous attack on the plate of chocolate cake—Hannah's prize contribution to this farewell feast.
"This time to-morrow night we'll probably be regaling ourselves on baked beans and cold rice-pudding," added Alma, cramming chocolate cake into her mouth like a greedy child. "That's an awful thought."
"Now, miss, ye don't suppose they'll be feedin' ye bad," exclaimed Hannah in great concern. The old woman had taken her stand respectfully near the doorway, loath to lose the last few glimpses of her adored young mistresses. "If ye think that now, I can send ye a box of jellies and the like any time ye say."
"Well, they'll probably give us something more than bread and water—but not much," replied Nancy, seriously. "They don't believe in giving students much to eat, because it hampers their brains."
"Is that so, now?" marvelled Hannah.
"It is indeed—it's a scientific fact, Hannah. When we come back for the Christmas holidays, we'll probably be so pale and wan that we won't even cast a shadow. But goodness, how clever we'll be."
"I'm a great believer in good feedin'," commented Hannah dubiously. "And I don't cotton much to scientifics, if you'll pardon me, miss. Lord, what an empty house 'twill be without ye."
"I hope you aren't insinuating that we take up much room," laughed Nancy; she was teasing Hannah to cover up her own growing sensation of homesickness and uneasiness. "Take good care of Mother, Hannah, and don't let her go out without her rubbers on, and—and make her write to us every single day. It's ridiculous, I suppose, to talk as if we were going twelve hundred instead of twelve miles, but we've never been even twelve miles away from home before."
"Yes, and there's nothing like seeing something of the world to broaden a person," observed Alma, sagely. "When I'm grown up, I shall certainly travel. I intend to make a tour of the world. Egypt especially—goodness, I'd like to go to Egypt. That Edith Palliser was a lucky girl—her guardian took her to Paris and Rome and Cairo and even to Algiers, and she met all kinds of interesting people—a Spanish prince and a Russian count, and loads of artists and writers and things. I'm afraid that we must be terribly provincial."