Sunday evening found the trunks packed and strapped. Except for a while in the morning and afternoon, when Mary was resting, the whole family spent the day in her room. Perhaps it would have been better for the child if they had not done so; for the more she saw of her little sisters, the harder it became for her to think of parting with them. It seemed to her that the hours fairly flew, and as evening drew near, her poor little heart grew heavier and heavier. But she bore up bravely—so bravely that her mother was more than surprised. Then bedtime came; and Mrs. Selwyn herself, instead of the nurse, tucked the little girl in for the night and sat by the bedside until she thought Mary was asleep.

An hour later, she tiptoed into the room. All was quiet; but as she bent to give the child a last good-night kiss and to smooth her pillow, she found the little face wet with tears and the pillow soaked. Wrapping Mary in a blanket, she took her in her arms, and seating herself, rocked quietly for some time. The child's big wistful eyes never left her face. At last the mother spoke.

"When Father told me, dear, that he must go away for a year and found that you must remain at home, he made a plan to which I would not listen. He said that he would sail now, and that we should follow in June. I could not bear to think of his being alone in a strange country with none of his own near him for six or seven months; but neither can I bear to leave my little girl in such a state. I know that this is a very great trial for you, darling, and I fear that we are asking too much of you in your present weakness. So I think I had better place Father in our dear Lord's hands, and let him carry out his plan. Perhaps something will happen so that he need not be away so long; but if by the first of June he cannot return, we shall go to him. So try to sleep now, my darling. Mother will not leave you."

"But you must, you must, Mother!" whispered Mary. "We would just die thinking of Father and how lonely he would be and—and everything. I won't cry any more—truly, I won't. I shall go to sleep just as fast as I can. Is it very late, Mother?"

"No, dear, only half-past nine."

"Then will you stay with me until I go to sleep? It will be only a little minute."

When Mary awoke the next morning, her father was sitting beside the bed, holding on his knee the very dearest doll she had ever seen. It was as large as a real baby, and its arms were stretched out to her. With a cry of delight, she stretched hers out, too, when—how it happened, Mary did not know—the doll was crying and waving its arms and kicking just as the twins did.

"Why—why—oh, the poor little thing! It must have the colic, Father."

Then something happened again, and dollie was once more smiling.

"Is it a live doll, Father?" whispered the little girl in wonder.

"No, pet. See this button at the back of its neck? Watch what happens when I push it."

"Oh, oh! Now, I know! Its head turns around inside its cap, and it has a crying face instead of hair at the back of its head. Father, where did you find such a darling doll?"

"I happened to see it Saturday on my way from the bank to the steamship office. Mother had just telephoned me that our brave little daughter would not think of letting her old daddy live among strangers——"

"But—but I wasn't brave, Father," came the protest in a choked voice. "Didn't Mother tell you how horrid I was?"

"No, dear; and I really cannot believe that you were horrid. I know that you must have felt just as I did when Uncle Frank said that you could not go with us. Sometimes on the spur of the moment, we say things that we do not really mean, and I am sure that is what you did. But here is something that will interest you—a fine kodak. We shall take pictures of the babies every week, and mail them to you, and Uncle will get you a new album to paste them in."

Shortly after luncheon, Aunt Mandy brought the babies in for the last time. Mary hugged them and kissed their rosy little faces over and over again as she whispered, "Take care of them, Aunt Mandy, oh, take care of them and of Father and Mother——"

"'Cose I will, honey chile! Why fo' yo' 'spects old mammy gwine 'long, I lak to know?"

Then her father and mother came; and Mary, winking very fast and swallowing hard, clung to them not daring to speak, but just drinking in every loving word which they uttered. They had hardly left the room when the Doctor appeared. Mary clenched her hands and tried to smile at him.

"They have gone downstairs, have they? I shall be back very soon, Goldilocks." Then, touched by the utter loneliness of the little figure in the big chair, he added, "Just as soon as I put them into the carriage. But you ought to be at a front window to wave to them. Will you please bring some of those sofa cushions, Sister?"

"But—Uncle," said Mary as he hurried with her through the hall, "I thought you were going to see them off."

"I did think of doing so, but I have changed my mind."

"No, Uncle, you must not stay just for me. Please go with them—please! But come back soon."

"I shall be back by three o'clock, little one," and he was gone.

Bravely the little girl tried to smile as she pressed her face close to the windowpane and threw a last kiss to her mother before she stepped into the carriage. Her father and uncle, each holding a baby, made them wave and kiss their tiny hands to her, and then passed them in to Mrs. Selwyn and Aunt Mandy. Another moment, and the door closed after the two men. Mary knelt on the sill with Sister Julia's strong arm to support her, and strained her eyes for the very last glimpse of the handkerchief fluttering from the carriage window. Then she sank upon the cushions, her frail little form shaking with the sobs she could no longer control.

Just before three o'clock, the Doctor returned. In spite of his own sadness, he had tried on his way home to remember the amusing things which he had seen at the docks so that he would have something cheerful to tell Mary. He made a special effort to whistle a lively tune as he mounted the stairs; but at the door of her room, it died on his lips.

"Why—why—" he was at the bedside in three strides.

"O Uncle! I thought you would never come!"

"But, dear, I stayed only long enough to see the steamer underway, as I thought you wished me to do. I did not even stop at my office on the way home. What is it? Are you in pain?"

"My head, Uncle."

The Doctor looked with questioning eyes at Sister Julia, who was bathing the child's head. She nodded toward the hall and soon followed him from the room.

"It is nothing more than I feared, Doctor. She has been under a greater strain for the past two days than anyone thought. I have seldom seen such self-control in older people, and certainly did not look for it in a frail child like Mary."

"I knew that she was making an immense effort to keep up, and I feared the result; but this—have you taken her temperature, Sister?"

"Fifteen minutes ago, it was one hundred and two."

"Hm, I thought so. However, as a mere cold throws her into quite a fever, I am not alarmed yet. I shall stay with her for awhile, and you had better take a few hours rest. You will get very little of that to-night."