Mary had her neat travelling-dress of grey cloth, tailor-made, her close-fitting toque, her veil and gloves, all her equipment, lying ready to put on.
Her old friend, Simmons, had packed her travelling trunk.

It had come to almost the last day.
And, to be sure, Mary must be much with her father and the others during those last hours.

She had gone with her father for a long country walk.
"I wish you were coming, too," said Mary, clinging closely to his arm.
"You will be bringing me back fine stories," her father said, patting her hand.

"I shall be seeing the world through your eyes, child." "I shall write to you every day." "I shan't expect that, Mary.

You will be moving from place to place.