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“Bridget, I am starting for Chili by this afternoon’s steamer. Josephine is going to Baltimore by the six o’clock overland. There isn’t a moment to waste. Please bring the empty trunks from the storeroom and pack them while I attend to other matters, though I will help you as I can. Put my clothes into the large trunk and Josephine’s into the small one. There, there, good soul, don’t begin to cry again. I need all my own will to get through this awful day; and please make haste.”

During the busy hours which followed both mamma and Bridget seemed to have forgotten the little girl, save, now and then, to answer her questions; and one of these was:

“What’s Chili, Bridget?”

“Sure, it’s a kind of pickle-sauce, darlin’.”

“Haven’t we got some of it in the cupboard?”

“Slathers, my colleen.”

“Chili is a country, my daughter,” corrected mamma, looking up from the letter she was writing so hurriedly that her pen went scratch, scratch.

“Is it red, mamma?”

“Hush, little one. Don’t be botherin’ the mistress the now. Here’s Rudanthy’s best clothes. Put ’em on, and have her ready for the start.”