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There came a day when there was no noise in the garden.  The boys wandered around all morning without playing, now and then wiping their eyes on their jacket sleeves, and talking in low tones.  Once they threw themselves down on the grass and hid their faces, and cried and sobbed, until their grandfather came out and led them away.  The blinds were all drawn next morning, and the gardener came and cut down nearly all his lilies, and great armfuls of the Gold of Ophir roses to carry into the house.

Another quiet day went by, and then there was such a rumbling of carriage wheels outside the garden, that I climbed up a tree and looked over the high walls.  There was a long, slow procession winding up the white mountain road toward a far-away grove of pines.  I knew then what had happened.  They were taking the children’s mother to the cemetery, and they would have to go home without her.  “Poor children,” I thought, “and poor old great-aunt Patricia.”

The next evening I heard the old gentleman tell David to bring Matches and me into the house.  The next thing I knew I was dropped into a big bandbox with holes in the lid, and somebody was buckling a shawl-strap around it.  Then I heard the old gentleman say to Doctor Tremont, “Tom, I don’t want to add to the inconveniences of your journey, but I should like to send these monkeys along to help amuse the boys.  Maybe they’ll be some comfort to them.  Dago is for Stuart, and Matches is for Phil.  It would be a good idea to keep them in their boxes to-night on the sleeping-car.  They are unusually well behaved little animals, but it would be safer to keep them shut up until the boys are awake to look after them.”

You can imagine my feelings when I realised that I was to be sent away.  I shrieked and chattered with rage, but no one paid any attention to me.  I was obliged to settle down in my box in sulky silence.  In a little while I could feel myself being carried down the porch steps.  Then the carriage door slammed and we jolted along in the dark for a long time.  I knew when we reached the depot by the bright light streaming through the holes in my box-lid.  I was carried up the steps into the sleeping-car, and for the next quarter of an hour it seemed to me that my box changed position every two minutes.  The porter was getting us settled for the night He was about to poke the box that held me under the berth where little Elsie and her nurse were to sleep, when Stuart called him from the berth above, into which he had just climbed.  So I was tossed up as if I had been an ordinary piece of baggage, the porter little knowing what was strapped so carefully inside the bandbox.

Doctor Tremont and Phil had the section just across the aisle from ours, and Phil carried his box up the step-ladder himself, and stowed Matches carefully away in one corner before he began to take off his shoes.  When the curtains were all drawn and the car-lights turned down low so that every one could sleep, Stuart sat up and began unbuckling the strap around my box.  I knew enough to keep still when he took the lid off and gently stroked me.  I had no intention of being sent back to the baggage-car, if keeping quiet would help me to escape the conductor’s eyes.