"Because you are little and tender. It is only great, strong people that should travel. But don't look sad, my little girl; it breaks my heart. Papa will soon come back to his Polly."
"Indeed, indeed, I am not sad, scarcely at all."
"Polly would be sorry to give papa pain; would she not?"
"Sorrier than sorry."
"Then Polly must be cheerful: not cry at parting; not fret afterwards. She must look forward to meeting again, and try to be happy meanwhile. Can she do this?"
"She will try."
"I see she will. Farewell, then. It is time to go."
"Now?—just now?"
"Just now."
She held up quivering lips. Her father sobbed, but she, I remarked, did not. Having put her down, he shook hands with the rest present, and departed.
When the street-door closed, she dropped on her knees at a chair with a cry—"Papa!"
It was low and long; a sort of "Why hast thou forsaken me?" During an ensuing space of
