enough, especially if it
was rather late, and the shadows of tombstones and trees all fell long
upon the sunny walks, all pointing like warning black fingers toward the
gate. Then, indeed, I was apt to forgive my mother and flee to her--and
supper.

And so, up and down, smiling and sighing, I went, taking _conge_ of the
city that had been home to me all my life, save just two years. I even
paused at the little old cottage whose gate was the only one I had ever
swung on, and I had hated the swinging, but I was six and was
passionately enamoured of a small person named Johnnie, who lived there
and who wore blue aprons; so I swung on the gate with him and to please
him, and then, being like most of his sex, fickle of fancy, he deserted
me for a new red dress worn by another. And when he spilled milk on it
(his mother sold milk) and spoiled its glory, she scratched his face, and
he wanted to return to me; but my love was dead, so dead I wouldn't even
accept sips of milk out of the little pails he had to carry around to
customers. And, so cruel is life, there I stood and laughed as I took
leave of the small gate.

At last all was done, my trunks were gone, I sat in my empty room waiting
for the carriage. I had to make my journey quite alone, since my mother
was to join me only when I had found a place to settle in. I was very
sad. Mr. Ellsler was ill, for the first time since I had known him, and I
had been over to his home, three or four blocks away, and bade good-by
to Mrs. Ellsler and gentle little Annie--the other children were out. And
finding I had no fear of contagion from a bad throat, she showed me into
Mr. Ellsler's room. I was shocked to see him so wasted and so weak, and
not being used to sickness I was frightened about him. Judge, then, my
amazement, when, hearing a knock on my door and calling, "Come in,"
instead of a bell-boy, there entered, pale and almost staggering, Mr.
Ellsler. A rim of red above his white muffler betrayed the bandaged
throat, and his poor voice was but a husky whisper.

"I could not help it," he said; "you were placed under my care once by
your mother. You were a child then, and though you are pleased to
consider yourself a woman now, I could not bear to think of your leaving
the city, at this saddest hour of the day, to begin a lonely journey,
without some old friend being by for a parting God-speed."

I was inexpressibly grateful, even through all my fright at his rashness;
but he h