She might, indeed, inclose her letters to their several postmasters. Postmasters were always so obliging, and always knew where people were going to, and where to send their letters. She might, at least, write two letters, to say that they--the Peterkins--had arrived, and were disappointed not to find the Sylvesters. And she could add that their trunks had not arrived, and perhaps their friends might look out for them on their way. It really seemed a good plan to write. Yet another question came up, as to how she would get her letters to the post-office, as she had already learned it was at quite a distance, and in a different direction from the station, where they were to send the next day for their trunks.
She went over and over these same questions, kept awake by the coughing and talking of her neighbors, the other side of the thin partition.
She was scarcely sorry to be aroused from her uncomfortable sleep by the morning sounds of guinea-hens, peacocks, and every other kind of fowl.
Mrs. Peterkin expressed her satisfaction at the early breakfast, and declared she was delighted with such genuine farm sounds.
They passed the day much as the afternoon before, reaching the beach only in time to turn round to come back for their dinner, which was appointed at noon.
Mrs. Peterkin was quite satisfied. “Such a straight road, and the beach such a safe place to turn round upon!”
Elizabeth Eliza was not so well pleased. A wagon had been sent to the station for their trunks, which could not be found; they were probably left at the Boston station, or, Mr. Atwood suggested, might have been switched off upon one of the White Mountain trains. There was no use to write any letters, as there was no way to send them. Elizabeth Eliza now almost hoped the Sylvesters would not come, for what should she do if the trunks did not come and all her new dresses? On her way over to the beach she had been thinking what she should do with her new foulard and cream-colored surah if the Sylvesters did not come, and if their time was spent in only driving to the beach and back. But now, she would prefer that the Sylvesters would not come till the dresses and the trunks did. All she could find out, from inquiry, on returning, was, “that another lot was expected on Saturday.” The next day she suggested:--“Suppose we take our dinner with us to the beach, and spend the day.” The Sylvesters and Ann Maria then would find them on the beach, where her travelling-dress would be quite appropriate. “I am a little tired,” she added, “of going back and forward over the same road; but when the rest come we can vary it.”