The eventful morning arrived on which I was to take my departure.  It was my first absence from home for any length of time, and I had scarcely been able to sleep at all during the night—­my mind being occupied with the one all-engrossing thought.  I scarcely dared to listen at first, for fear I should hear it rain; but the sun shone brightly in all the glory of a clear June morning, and springing out of bed, I dressed myself as expeditiously as possible, for fear that Aunt Henshaw might go off without me.  “What then was my surprise, when after breakfast I saw the old lady sit down as usual, and after carefully wiping her spectacles, take up a book she had been perusing, just as if the greatest event of my life were not about to occur that very day?

“Why, Aunt Henshaw!” said I in a tone of acute disappointment, “Are we not going to-day?”

“Certainly, my dear,” was her reply, “But the stage coach will not be here till two o’clock, and I have all my things ready.”

What could I possibly do with the six intervening hours?  I too had all my things ready; and my spirits were now in a state that absolutely required excitement of some kind or other.  I tried to read, but it was impossible to fix my thoughts on the subject—­even the Arabian Nights failed to interest me; and after wondering for some time at Aunt Henshaw, who could view the near prospect of a journey that would occupy two or three days with the most perfect composure, I proceeded to my mother’s apartment.  I had not been there long before I got up a cry, and felt more doubtful than ever whether I wished to go.  But mamma talked with me for some time; and having clearly ascertained that it was my parents’ wish that I should go, in hopes of benefiting my health by the change, I comforted myself with the idea of martyrdom on a small scale.

I put my doll to board with Ellen Tracy until my return, at a charge of so many sugar-plums a week; with strict injunctions not to pull its arms or legs out of order, or attempt to curl its hair.  I could not eat a mouthful of dinner, but Aunt Henshaw stowed away some cake for me in a corner of her capacious bag; a proceeding which then rather amused me, but for which I was afterwards exceedingly thankful.  The time seemed almost interminable; I threw out various hints on the value of expedition, the misery of being behindhand, and the doubtful punctuality of stage-coaches—­but Aunt Henshaw remained immovable.

“As to its coming before the appointed time,” said she, “I never heard of such a thing.  It is much more likely to leave us altogether.”

Dreadful idea!  Suppose it should!  I stood flattening my nose against the window-pane in hopes of spying the welcome vehicle; but it did not even glimmer in the far distance.  Full half an hour before the time, I was equipped in the wrappers which my invalid state required, impatiently awaiting the expected clatter of wheels.  At length it rolled rapidly up to the door; a shabby-looking vehicle, drawn by four horses—­and a perfect wilderness of heads and eyes looked forth from the windows, while legs and arms dangled from the top.  It was quite full; and several voices called out, “They can’t come in, driver!  It’s impossible!”