One returns again and again to the weather, to coats and cloaks, perhaps even to sandwiches and the sherry flask.

All effect is thus destroyed, and a trespass is made even on the domain of feeling.
I remember a line of poetry, learnt in my earliest youth, and which I believe to have emanated from a sentimental Frenchman, a man of genius, with whom my parents were acquainted.

It is as follows:-- Are you go ?--Is you gone ?--And I left ?--Vera vell! Now the whole business of a farewell is contained in that line.
When the moment comes, let that be said; let that be said and felt, and then let the dear ones depart.
Mrs.Woodward and Gertrude--God bless them!--had never studied the subject.

They knew no better than to sit in the nasty cabin, surrounded by boxes, stewards, porters, children, and abominations of every kind, holding each other's hands, and pressing damp handkerchiefs to their eyes.

The delay, the lingering, upset even Gertrude, and brought her for a moment down to the usual level of leave-taking womanhood.