I picked them up one at a time. There were “The Cricket on the Hearth, &c.;” “Sketches of Married Life;” Mrs. Stowe’s “May Flower,” Willis and Longfellow, and three of the Abbott series, for Sunday reading. Each pleaded so eloquently to be taken, that I thought that to leave either would be an insult to the author, and so, after a little hesitation, I felt that _all_ of them must go. “Couldn’t you do without the portfolio and magazines?” was then asked. “That would be _impossible_!” I exclaimed. “Then you must take that small portmantua, too.” “But I hate to take so much baggage with me,” I said. “Then I can’t think of any other mode of freeing you from the difficulty.” In the midst of this dilemma Fanny Day was announced. “Tell her to come up here,” I said. “What, in this disordered room?” I hastily glanced at the books and dresses strewn around me, and then replied: “The room don’t look _very_ well, I know; but I can’t leave my packing just now: besides Fanny may be able to assist me in this difficulty.” I had expected to find Fanny full of joy and enthusiasm in the near prospect of our visit, for so she had always been when we talked about it previously; but she looked sad and dispirited, and it was not until I had made many repeated and eloquent exclamations upon the subject, that she would take any interest in my packing. Then she said quietly— “Never mind, Marie, there is plenty of room in my trunk for more than half those things.” I thanked her with delight; yet could not but be surprised that she should be satisfied with fewer “_positively necessary_” articles than myself. “Now, that you have this matter satisfactorily arranged, will you go out with me?” she asked. “Where?” I inquired with slight hesitation, for I had already planned engagements of some sort for every hour in the day. “Down Chestnut street,” she replied. “Will you keep me long?” I asked. “I will tell you all about it when we get into the street,” she answered. I hesitated. “Come, Marie, do go with me; that’s a dear, good girl,” Fanny continued, looking coaxingly in my face all the time. I had not the heart to resist her pleading, and very soon we were on our way to Chestnut street. “I am going to Mr. Root’s to have my daguerreotype taken,” Fanny said, when we were about a square from home. “But you had three taken last week,” I said. “Yes, but my mother did not like those very well. They were not taken by Root, and now I am determined to have a good one for her.” “Had you not better wait till we return?” I asked. “No; I cannot,” she replied, in a serious tone. I looked at her inquiringly. “I know you will laugh at me, Marie, and think me very foolish,” she said, “but I have a presentiment that I shall never live to return.” “I have had a dozen such in my life-time,” I answered, “yet they all proved untrue; and so may yours, Fanny dear.” “I fear not,” she replied in a sad tone.