The
next day my relations wished me good-bye--always a hard word to say.
One parting in particular wrung my heart: I little thought then I
should meet no more my brother Rudolph, the last of my four dear
brothers, all of whom died young by untoward accidents. It was strange
I was always bidding good-bye to them every three or four years. One
ought to have been steeled to parting by now. Nevertheless every time
the wrench was as keen as ever.
We stopped in Folkestone until Tuesday, and then Richard and I got into
a sleigh, which took us over the snow from the hotel to the boat. We
had a very cold crossing, but not a rough one; and as we neared Boulogne
we even saw a square inch or so of pale blue sky, a sight which, after
London, made us rejoice.
The old port at Boulogne stretched out its two long lean arms to our
cockle-shell steamer, as though anxious to embrace it. I thought, as
we came into the harbour, how much of this quaint old town had been
bound up with my life. I could never see it without recalling the two
years which I had spent in Boulogne years ago, and going over again in
my mind the time when I first saw Richard--the day of my life which will
always be marked with a great white stone. He was a young lieutenant
then on furlough from India, who had seen nothing of life but one
hurried London season.
We stayed at Boulogne two days, and wandered about all over the place
together, calling back to our memory the scenes of our bygone youth.
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