Randolph Bartlett took her to the station in his car, and Miss Isobel met
them there with a suit-case full of articles that she feared Eleanor had
failed to provide.
"I put in some overshoes," she said, fluttering about like a distracted
hen whose adopted duckling unexpectedly takes to water. "I also fixed up
a medicine-case and a sewing basket. I knew you would never think of
them. And, dear, I know how you hate heavy underwear, but pneumonia is so
prevalent. You must promise me not to take cold if you can possibly avoid
it."
Eleanor promised. Somehow, Aunt Isobel, with her anxious face and her
reddened eyelids, had never seemed so pathetic before.
"I'll write to you, auntie," she said reassuringly; "and you mustn't
worry."
"Don't write to me," whispered Miss Isobel tremulously. "Write to mother.
Just a line now and then to let her know you think of her. She's quite
feeble, Nellie, and she talks about you from morning until night."
Eleanor's face hardened. She evidently did not enjoy imagining the nature
of Madam's discourse. However, she squeezed Aunt Isobel's hand and said
she would write.
Then Quin arrived with the ticket and the baggage-checks, the train was
called, and Eleanor was duly embraced and wept over.
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