s shook their heads, and one old lady piped out on
a very high key,--

"No, sir, I hain't!"

The gentleman passed out, and shut the door. Gypsy held her breath. It was
her uncle.

He looked troubled and anxious. Gypsy's cheeks flushed,--a sudden impulse
came over her to call him back,--she started and threw open the window,
but the engine-bell rang, the train puffed slowly off, and her uncle
disappeared in the crowd.

As she was whirled rapidly along through wharves and shipping and lumber,
away from the roar of the city, and out where woods and green fields lined
the way, she began, for the first time, to think what she was doing, and
to wonder if she were doing right. Her anger at her aunt, and the utter
disappointment and homesickness of her Boston visit, had swept away, for a
few moments, all her power of reasoning. To get home, to see her
mother,--to hide her head on her shoulder and cry,--this was the one
thought that had turned itself over and over in her mind, on that quick
ride from Beacon Street, and in that hour spent in the dark corner of the
depot. Here she was, running like a thief from her uncle's house, without
a word of good-by or thanks for his hospitality, with no message to tell
him where she had gone but that note, hastily written in the first flush
of her hurt and angry feelings. And the hurrying train was whirling her
over hill and valley faster and farther. To go back was impossible, go on
she must. What had she done?

She began now, too, to wonder where she should spend the night. The train
went only as far as Rutland, and it would be late and dark when she
reached the town--far too late for a little girl to be travelling alone,
and to spend a night in a strange hotel, in a strange place. What should
she do?

As the afternoon passed, and the twilight fell, and the lamps were
lighted, and people hurried out at way-stations to safe and waiting homes,
her loneliness and anxiety increased. Just before entering Rutland, a
young man, dressed in a dandyish manner, and partially intoxicated,
entered the car, and took the empty seat by Gypsy. She did not like his
looks, and moved away slightly, turning to look out of the window.

"No offense, I hope?" said the man, with a foolish smile; "the car was
full."

Gypsy made no reply.

"Travelling far?" he said, a moment after.

"To Rutland, sir," said Gypsy, feeling very uneasy, as she perceived the
odor of rum, and wishing he would not talk to he