On a slanting brown field gulls from the sea, white and shining, were
hovering, wheeling, sinking into the soil. And yet, as he went, he was
not leaving March Square behind, but rather taking it with him. He was
taking the children too--Bim, Angelina, John, even Sarah (against her
will), and it was not her who was in charge of the party. He felt as
though, the railway carriages were full and he ought to say continually,
"Now, Bim, be quiet. Sit still and look at the picture-book I gave you.
Sarah, I shall leave you at the next station if you aren't careful," and
that she replied, giving him one of her dark sarcastic looks, "I don't
care if you do. I know how to get home all right without your help."
He wished that he hadn't brought her, and yet he couldn't help himself.
They all had to come. Then, as he looked about the empty carriage, he
laughed at himself. Only a fat farmer reading _The Glebeshire Times_.
"Marnin', sir," said the farmer. "Warm Christmas we'll be havin', I
reckon. Yes, indeed. I see the Bishop's dying--poor old soul too."
When they arrived at Clinton he caught himself turning round as though
to collect his charges; he thought that the farmer looked at him
curiously.
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