as in it.
Oh, Nelly dear, when you 've seen as much of life as me, you 'll know
that one must be up to many a thing for appearance' sake."

Nelly sighed, but made no reply. Perhaps in secret she thought how much
trouble a little sincerity with the world would save us.

"We 'll be mighty lonesome after her," said he, after a pause.

Nelly nodded her head in sadness.

"I was looking over the map last night, and it ain't so far away, after
all," said Dalton. "'T is n't much more than the length of my finger on
the paper."

"Many a weary mile may lie within that space," said Nelly, softly.

"And I suppose we'll hear from her every week, at least?" said Dalton,
whose mind vacillated between joy and grief, but still looked for its
greatest consolations from without.

Poor Nelly was, however, little able to furnish these. Her mind saw
nothing but sorrow for the present; and, for the future, difficulty, if
not danger.

"You give one no comfort at all," said Dalton, rising impatiently.
"That's the way it will be always now, when Kate goes. No more gayety in
the house; not a song nor a merry laugh! I see well what a dreary life
there is before me."

"Oh, dearest papa, I 'll do my very best, not to replace her, for that
I never could do; but to make your days less wearisome. It will be
such pleasure, too, to talk of her, and think of her! To know of her
happiness, and to fancy all the fair stores of knowledge she will bring
back with her when she comes home at last!"

"If I could only live to see them back again, Frank and Kate, one at
each side of me, that 's all I ask for in this world now," muttered he,
as he stole noiselessly away and closed the door behind him.

CHAPTER XIX. PREPARATIONS FOR THE ROAD.

IF the arrival of a great family at an hotel be a scene of unusual
bustle and excitement, with teeming speculations as to the rank and the
wealth of the new-comers, the departure has also its interests, and
even of a higher nature. In the former case all is vague, shadowy, and
uncertain. The eye of the spectator wanders from the muffled figures
as they descend, to scrutinize the lackeys, and even the luggage, as
indicative of the strangers' habits and condition; and even to the
shrewd perceptions of that dread functionary, the head waiter, the
identity of the traveller assumes no higher form nor any more tangible
shape than that they are No. 42 or 57.

When the hour of leave-taking has come, however, their