A
miserable-looking woman in widow's weeds was loitering about the door of
the post office, and with her was a tattered girl surrounded by trunks,
suit-cases, and bandboxes, so we guessed they were there to be fellow
passengers. A waggon loaded with boxes halted before them, but the widow
declined to let _her_ baggage go by it.
At last the post waggon came. It was a small springless openwork cart
with a rounded hood on it, so that it could roll when it upset--which
was the rule rather than the exception--luggage accommodation was
provided only for the "soap and tooth-brush" type of traveller; but the
widow insisted upon packing in all her movables, and after that we four
squeezed into what room was left. The seat was low, one's chin and knees
were in dangerous proximity, and a less ideal position for travelling
some thirty-five miles could not be imagined. The widow's portmanteau,
all knobs and locks, was arranged to coincide with Jo's spine. The
tattered maid was loaded with five packages on her knees which she could
not control, so we looked as cheerful as we could and said to ourselves,
"Anyway it will do in the book.
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