CHAPTER V.

PARTINGS AND DEPARTURES.

READER! never, if you can help it, go to see a friend off by the railway. If you are doomed to part from a beloved one-perchance a cherished son, who is leaving you for distant climes, for scenes of toil and peril; or from a young daughter, the very light of your eyes and joy of your heart ever since she drew her first breath, who has cast in her lot with one bound for a foreign country-go not to the station to see the last of them. Spare yourself and them the torture of having to breathe the fatal word "farewell" in such a spot as that.

You stand on the platform, and, amid rude, rough sounds, the din of voices, and the deafening noise of the engine, gaze on the face

about to pass from your sight for years-perhaps for ever! You watcheach change of every treasured feature-the fond eyes dimming with tears the cheeks becoming paler and paler, the mute, quivering lips-then presently some official comes up to you, and the carriage door, which had been open hitherto, is shut with a sudden, sharp, relentless clang. The first blow is struck; the iron has entered into your soul. But a hand is stretched out of the window, you can still touch it feel it-press it-oh, so fervently! You can still gaze on the yearning, mournful countenance. But now the last bell rings, and the train begins to move on-onslowly, very slowly at first-for you can even yet see the precious face-just catch a glimpse of the flowing tears, an arm upraised, a mouth moving, lips quivering, as if in vain strivings to utter some last words of love and comfort;—and now it is gone-quite gone, and you are alone. You gaze on vacancy; your brain is dizzy; your heart is sick; you are rooted to the spot on which you stand; your shaking limbs refuse to carry you back to the haven you are longing

for-the sanctuary of your own home. Oh! how far better to have given your darling the last kiss, the last fond pressure, to have spoken the last words of tenderness, in the sacred privacy of your own chamber, where you could have poured forth prayers in soothing solitude; wept agonizing but healing tears, unseen, unnoticed by human eye.

And on ordinary occasions, it still seems to me better, even more courteous and hospitable, to bid adieu to a guest beneath your own threshold it savours almost too much of speeding the departing guest, to go and see him consigned to the flying monster. At all events, by so doing, you prolong a leavetaking, which is always an affair best got over quickly.

But probably few will enter into my view of this matter, certainly not those persons who, whenever an opportunity presents itself, rush to the station to have a transient peep at, and a few hurried words with, any friend who may be passing by. With what an unsatisfied sensation do they, notwithstanding, generally return from

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the interview! Their anxiety to make as much as possible of the brief time allowed them, to crowd into a few moments as much conversation as they can manage, produced quite the contrary effect. They have felt tongue-tied, almost idiotic, unable to recollect what they had been so desirous to talk about; all their fancied eloquence has vanished, their ideas have become congealed, so that, strange to say, the few minutes lagged, and were wasted, and it was an absolute relief to both parties when the meeting was over. Surely in such a case le jeu ve vaut pas la chandelle!

The only occasion, I think, on which one can accompany a departing relative or friend to the railway station with any degree of gratification, is, when he or she is bound on a brief trip of pleasure; and as Dora beheld Mrs. Freeling seated in the carriage, looking serene and comely, her handsome, well-stuffed travelling bag beside her, a light cloak thrown over her knees by the attentive Mrs. Tucker, who was seated opposite to her mistress, she thought her mother presented a picture of complete comfort

and prosperity; in fact, she was almost inclined to envy the freedom from care and disquietude her countenance expressed. For it is a mistake to suppose that the young are exempt from trouble. They have their full share; for if the burden is in reality less heavy, it presses with as great a weight, upon fresh, unaccustomed hearts, keenly alive, acutely sensitive, to every pang; and which struggle against pain and sorrow, like the captive bird that beats its wings unavailingly and hurtfully against its cage. For patience and resignation are the growth of older years; time brings us into the routine, as it were, of trials and griefs; we become habituated to expect them, and when they do arrive, we receive them with trust and submission, and strength is given with them to bear them uncomplainingly. But this is a lesson only to be learnt through a course of oftrepeated afflictions, and belongs not to the immature experience of the young.

Dora, on receiving the final caress, the parting words of kind solicitude from her really fond, usually over-indulgent parent,