A few others wept into their handkerchiefs alternately with throwing themselves upon the two who wore cloaks and bonnets and were apparently the travelers. Another girl—or perhaps young lady would be a more accurate description since she must be three or four years older than any of the others—ineffectively exhorted the girls to stand in two orderly lines. Joseph guessed that she must be a teacher. The elderly, sour-faced porter, whose boots creaked just as he recalled they had done two days ago, set two valises out on the step and looked at John as if to say that it was his responsibility to see that they found the rest of their way to the carriage. One of the travelers was chattering volubly to anyone who cared to listen—and to everyone who did not, for that matter. The other wept. Joseph looked down upon the chaotic scene with avuncular good humor. And then Miss Martin stepped out onto the pavement and there was a noticeable hush among the ranks, though the second traveler continued to sob. Another lady came out behind her and addressed them with far more authority than the young teacher had demonstrated. “Girls,” she said, “did you overpower Miss Walton and drag her out here with you? You said your good-byes to Flora and Edna at breakfast, did you not? And should therefore now be in class?” “We came to say good-bye to Miss Martin, miss,” one bold and quick-thinking girl said to the murmured agreement of a few others. “That was extremely thoughtful of you all,” the teacher said, her eyes twinkling. “But Miss Martin would appreciate the gesture far more if you were to stand in two neat lines and conduct yourselves with the proper decorum.” The girls promptly and cheerfully obeyed. Miss Martin meanwhile was eyeing first the carriage, then Joseph’s horse, and then him . “Good morning, Lord Attingsborough,” she said, her voice brisk.