“No, sis,” he replied, “I can’t eat.  I feel so miserable, everything chokes me.”

“Well, eat a biscuit, then,” she continued, as she buttered it and laid it on his plate; “do eat it, now.”

More to please her than from a desire to eat, he forced down a few mouthfuls of it, and drank a little tea; then, laying his arm round her neck, he said, “Em, you must try hard to learn to write soon, so that I may hear from you at least once a week.”

“Oh!  I shall soon know how, I’m in g’s and h’s now.  Aunt Esther—­she says I may call her Aunt Esther—­teaches me every day.  Ain’t I getting on nicely?”

“Oh, yes, you learn very fast,” said Esther, encouragingly, as she completed the pile of sandwiches she was preparing for the young traveller; then, turning to look at the timepiece on the mantel, she exclaimed, “Quarter to seven—­how time flies!  Mr. Balch will soon be here.  You must be all ready, Clarence, so as not to keep him waiting a moment.”

Clarence arose from his scarcely tasted meal, began slowly to put on his overcoat, and make himself ready for the journey.  Em tied on the warm woollen neck-comforter, kissing him on each cheek as she did so, and whilst they were thus engaged, Mr. Balch drove up to the door.

Charlie, who had come down to see him off, tried (with his mouth full of buckwheat cake) to say something consolatory, and gave it as his experience, “that a fellow soon got over that sort of thing; that separations must occur sometimes,” &c.—­and, on the whole, endeavoured to talk in a very manly and philosophical strain; but his precepts and practice proved to be at utter variance, for when the moment of separation really came and he saw the tearful embrace of Em and her brother, he caught the infection of grief, and cried as heartily as the best of them.  There was but little time, however, to spare for leave-takings, and the young traveller and his guardian were soon whirling over the road towards New York.

By a singular chance, Clarence found himself in the same car in which he had formerly rode when they were on their way to Philadelphia:  he recognized it by some peculiar paintings on the panel of the door, and the ornamental border of the ceiling.  This brought back a tide of memories, and he began contrasting that journey with the present.  Opposite was the seat on which his parents had sat, in the bloom of health, and elate with; joyous anticipations; he remembered—­oh! so well—­his father’s pleasant smile, his mother’s soft and gentle voice.  Both now were gone.  Death had made rigid that smiling face—­her soft voice was hushed for ever—­and the cold snow was resting on their bosoms in the little churchyard miles away.  Truly the contrast between now and then was extremely saddening, and the child bowed his head upon the seat, and sobbed in bitter grief.

“What is the matter?” asked Mr. Balch; “not crying again, I hope.  I thought you were going to be a man, and that we were not to have any more tears.  Come!” continued he, patting him encouragingly on the back, “cheer up!  You are going to a delightful place, where you will find a number of agreeable playmates, and have a deal of fun, and enjoy yourself amazingly.”