I had neither umbrella, portmanteau, nor shawl-strap; such ordinary
paraphernalia of travel I remembered once to have possessed, and tried in
vain to recall the particular occasions on which they had been wrecked in
Wallencamp. I bore with me my bouquet, my basket of boxberries, some
small cedar trees for transplanting, and half of the largest clam-shell
the shores of Cape Cod had ever produced; this last a parting gift from
Lovell Barlow.
I was far from being troubled with the consciousness of anything quaint
or _bizarre_ in my appearance. I felt no mortification on account of
these treasures so intrinsically dear to my heart; but Grandma Keeler had
insisted on binding a mustard paste on my chest. It was a parting
request--I could not have refused--but in the close air of the car the
physical torture began to be extreme. Tears fell on the cedar spray at my
side, yet was I withal strangely, peacefully happy.
It was raining when I passed through Boston. Once more in the din of a
city, jolting noisily over the rough, uneven pavements, I found myself
wondering continually if the Keelers had reached home, and imagining how
the rain was falling gently, quietly, on the roof of the Ark.
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