Then he said:—­

“Now girls, you are, for the first time in your lives, to be away from the care and advice of your parents.  Of course, if you need help in judging of anything, you are free to go to Mrs. Douglas; but there will be much that it will be best for you to decide without troubling her.  You will meet all sorts of people, travellers like yourselves, and many you will see who are spending money freely and for what seems pleasure only, without one thought of the special education that travel in the Old World might bring them.  Your mother and I have always been actuated by one purpose regarding our children.  We cannot give you money in abundance, but we are trying to give you a liberal education,—­that which is to us far superior to mere money riches,—­and the only consideration that makes us willing to part from you and to sacrifice for you now, is our belief that a rare opportunity for gaining culture and an education that cannot be found at home is open to you.

“Think of this always, my daughters.  Ponder it over while you are gone, and do your best to come home bringing a new wealth of knowledge that shall bless your younger brothers and sisters and our whole household, as well as your own lives.  You are not going on a pleasure trip, dear girls, but to another school,—­a thoroughly novel and delightful one,—­but do not forget that, after all, it is a school.”

As the rapidly increasing distance took from them the last sight of the father’s form, Barbara and Bettina turned and looked at each other with tearful eyes; and the unspoken thought of one was, “We will come home all that you long for us to be, dear papa!” and of the other, “Oh, I do hope we shall understand what you wish, and learn what and wherever we can!” and both thoughts meant the same thing and bore the same earnest purpose.

“Come girls,” said Mrs. Douglas, who had keenly observed them without appearing to do so, “it is best for us all to go to our staterooms directly and unpack our steamer-trunks.  Perhaps in even an hour or two we may not feel so much like doing it as we do now.”

As they passed through the end of the dining-saloon, whose tables were laden with bouquets of fresh and fragrant flowers, brought by loving friends to many of the passengers, Malcom’s quick eye spied a little pile of letters on the end of a corner table.

“I wonder,” said he, as he turned back to look them over, “if anybody thought to write to us.”

Returning with an envelope in his hands, he cried:—­

“What will you give for a letter from home already, Barbara and Betty?”

“For us!” exclaimed the girls, “a letter from home for us!  Why, we never thought such a thing could be!  How did it get here?  Did papa bring one and put it here?”

But no, for the letter addressed in the dear mother’s handwriting was clearly stamped, and its appearance testified that it had come through the mail to New York.