hool by!

A porter in white satin hurried forward to take Amabel's luggage. Her
luggage was the A.B.C. which she still held in her hand.

'Lots of time, Miss,' he said, grinning in a most friendly way, 'I _am_
glad you're going. You _will_ enjoy yourself! What a nice little girl
you are!'

This was cheering. Amabel smiled.

At the pigeon-hole that tickets come out of, another person, also in
white satin, was ready with a mother-of-pearl ticket, round, like a card
counter.

'Here you are, Miss,' he said with the kindest smile, 'price nothing,
and refreshments free all the way. It's a pleasure,' he added, 'to issue
a ticket to a nice little lady like you.' The train was entirely of
crystal, too, and the cushions were of white satin. There were little
buttons such as you have for electric bells, and on them
'_Whatyouwantoeat_,' '_Whatyouwantodrink_,' '_Whatyouwantoread_,' in
silver letters.

Amabel pressed all the buttons at once, and instantly felt obliged to
blink. The blink over, she saw on the cushion by her side a silver tray
with vanilla ice, boiled chicken and white sauce, almonds (blanched),
peppermint creams, and mashed potatoes, and a long glass of
lemonade--beside the tray was a book. It was Mrs. Ewing's _Bad-tempered
Family_, and it was bound in white vellum.

There is nothing more luxurious than eating while you read--unless it be
reading while you eat. Amabel did both: they are not the same thing, as
you will see if you think the matter over.

And just as the last thrill of the last spoonful of ice died away, and
the last full stop of the _Bad-tempered Family_ met Amabel's eye, the
train stopped, and hundreds of railway officials in white velvet
shouted, '_Whereyouwantogoto!_ Get out!'

A velvety porter, who was somehow like a silkworm as well as like a
wedding handkerchief sachet, opened the door.

'Now!' he said, 'come on out, Miss Amabel, unless you want to go to
_Whereyoudon'twantogoto_.'

She hurried out, on to an ivory platform.

'Not on the ivory, if you please,' said the porter, 'the white Axminster
carpet--it's laid down expressly for you.'

Amabel walked along it and saw ahead of her a crowd, all in white.

'What's all that?' she asked the friendly porter.

'It's the Mayor, dear Miss Amabel,' he said, 'with your address.'

'My address is The Old Cottage, Amberley,' she said, 'at least it used
to be'--and found herself face to face with the Mayor. He was very like
Uncle George, b