Jack and I go out into the garden and discuss our plans—what beasts are to go with us, what to be left behind. Paul Pry must come, of course, and the raven and the canaries, and Pepper, the tail-less. Dorley, must take care of the rabbits; and as to the fowls, they have lately misbehaved themselves so perseveringly that it would cause us no great sorrow if, on our return, we found papa had made a holocaust of the whole lot. Possibly the amazing news puts out of our heads our several intentions of evil-doing; at any rate we get into no mischief to-day, and merely walk about, laugh, talk, and stretch, not only in the school-room, but about the house, just as if we were used to doing it every day of our lives.
The governor comes back a trifle sweeter than he went. For once business does not seem to have rubbed him the wrong way; and somehow the few days slip away, and the golden morning of our departure arrives.
The coach stands at the door. It is going to take us all the way, and we are packed within it close as herrings, happy as lords; every nook and corner inside and out is brimmingly full; where a body is not squeezed in, a hamper or a parcel is, and how we shall ever be got out again is something of a mystery. We have smuggled all our little private belongings in safely. Under my petticoats lurk the birds and Paul Pry, who, with the sense of a Christian, utters not a sound, raps out not a single oath; a large basket of quarantines hides its modest head under mother's legs; the young ones firmly grasp spades and buckets as though they expected to find the sea upon the road; Amberley embraces five distinct bundles, bandboxes, and bags; the babies, set bolt up on end, utter fat little chirps of satisfaction. On the doorstep stands the governor, to whom we have just said good-bye with a freedom and affability that I think astonishes him as much as it does ourselves; for once in his presence our voices come honestly forth;
