"No, dear, I think not," said Mr. March; "I think the sooner you put her out of your sight the better; but now we must go into the cars." Poor Nelly! she walked slowly along, carrying the blue and white package as if it were a coffin,--as indeed it was, a kind of coffin, for a very dead dolly. As they were going into the car, Mr. March said to his wife:-- "There is no drawing-room in the sleeping-car which goes through to-day. I have had to take two sections." Mrs. March had never travelled in a sleeping-car before, and she did not know how much nicer the little room was than the "sections." So she replied: "They'll do just as well, won't they?" "I think you will not like them quite so well," replied Mr. March; "you cannot be by yourself with the children. But it is only for one night; we will make the best of it. There are our sections, one right opposite the other; so you will not have strangers opposite you." They put their lunch-basket and bags and bundles down on the floor, and sat down on the two sofas, facing each other. Nelly put her blue and white parcel in one corner of the sofa, lay down with her head on it, and was soon fast asleep. There were tears on her cheeks. "Poor child!" said Mr. March; "this is her first real grief." "I'm glad I ain't a girl," said Rob, bluntly; "I don't believe in dolls, do you, papa?" Mr. March answered Rob's question by another. "Do you believe in babies, Rob?" "Why, of course, papa! What a funny question! I think babies are real nice. They're alive, you know." "Yes," said his father; "but dolls are just the same to little girls that babies are to grown-up women. Nelly felt just like a mother to Mrs. Napoleon. She was a very good little mother too." "Yes," said Mrs. March; "she was. I am very sorry for her." "I'm real glad Deacon Plummer and Mrs. Plummer weren't here," said Rob. "Why, why, Rob?" said his mother. (Deacon and Mrs. Plummer had left the train at Quincy to spend a week with a son of theirs who lived there. They were to join the Marches later, in Denver.) "Oh, because she'd have said: 'This is--cough--cough--providential.' What does providential mean, anyhow, papa? You never say it. Does it make you cough and sneeze? Mrs. Plummer is always saying it about every thing." Mr. and Mrs. March laughed so hard at this they could not speak for some minutes. Then Mr. March said:-- "You must not speak so, Rob;" but, before he had finished his sentence, he had to stop again, and laugh harder than before. "Deacon and Mrs. Plummer are going to be the greatest help to us, and they are as good and kind as they can be." "Yes, I like her crullers first-rate," said Rob. "What does providential mean, papa?" Mr. March looked puzzled.