The Naumkeag was standing at the wharf waiting for the passengers who had come on the Western train. There was a great crowd, all hurrying, with bags and umbrellas, towards the boat with as much speed as if their lives depended upon getting there first and securing the best seats. Elithe lingered, anxiously watching the baggage as it was taken from the car. She was hot and dusty and tired and worn with the long journey. Her straw hat, with its faded ribbons, was crushed and bent, her flannel gown was soiled and wrinkled, and her gloves were worn at the fingers tips. “A dowdy little thing,” some might have called her, as she stood waiting the appearance of her trunk, which had caused her a great deal of anxiety. Whenever the train stopped long enough and it was possible for her to do so, she had managed to assure herself that it was there with her, and she always scanned closely any trunks standing in a station they were leaving, fearing lest by some mistake hers might have been taken out with others. If it were in New Bedford it was safe, and she stood in the broiling sun faint and dizzy, but resolute, until she caught sight of it and saw a train hand put it upon a truck not far from where she was standing. “This is the kind of trunk to have,” the man said to a companion, staggering under a huge Saratoga four times as large as Elithe’s poor little box tied with a rope, with one of the hinges to the lid wrenched nearly off and a great crack across the end where the card with her name upon it was fastened.