But as I looked at the dear friends on the piazza, growing dearer every minute, especially mother, I had my doubts whether I cared much about cousin Lydia's apples.
"She'll be back with father," remarked Ned, "as homesick as a kitten."
"Just you see if I do!"
It was well we were driving away just then, for my brave laugh came very near ending in a sob.
"I'm on business," said father, whipping up the Deacon, "and shall come back to-morrow; but you can do as you please, Totty-wax—you can come with me, or wait a month or six weeks, and come with cousin Lydia."
I was disposing, privately, of a stray tear, and could not answer.
"Your cousin will take the cars," said he.
"Take the cars!" I slipped off the seat, and stood upright in my surprise. The railroad had only just been laid to one corner of Willowbrook, and I had never taken a car in my life; had never seen one; didn't even know how it looked. This had been a great mortification to me ever since Fel went to Boston.
"O, father," cried I, whirling round and getting caught in the reins, "did you say the cars? I s'posed cousin Lydia would come in a wagon, and I didn't know's I cared about staying. Did you say the cars?"
"There, there; don't fall out over the Deacon's back. Did you ever hear what the water-wagtail said?"