ard, and looked no more back at Raby.
As soon as she had gained the other side of the island, where she was
concealed from Raby's sight by the trees, she pulled out vigorously
for the Springton shore. When she reached it, she drew the boat up
cautiously on the beach, fastened it, and hid herself among the trees.
Her plan was to wait there until dusk, then push the boat adrift in the
lake, and go out herself adrift into the world. She dared not set out
on her walk to Fairfield until it was dark; she knew, moreover, that
the northern train did not pass until nearly midnight. These hours that
Hetty spent crouched under the hemlock-trees on the shore of the lake
were harder than any which she lived through afterward. She kept her
eyes fixed on the opposite shore, on the spot where she knew the patient
child was waiting for her. She pictured him walking back and forth,
trying by childish devices to while away the time. As the sun sank
low she imagined his first anxious look,--his alarm,--till it seemed
impossible for her to bear the thoughts her imagination called up. He
would wait, she thought, about one hour past the time that she had set
for her return: possibly, for he was a brave child, he might wait until
it began to grow dark; he would think that she was searching for the
shawl. She hoped that any other explanation of her absence would not
occur to him until the very last. As the twilight deepened into dusk,
the mysterious night sounds began to come up from the woods; strange
bird notes, stealthy steps of tiny creatures. Hetty's nerves thrilled
with the awful loneliness: she could bear it no longer; she began to
walk up and down the beach; the sound of her footsteps drowned many
of the mysterious noises, and made her feel less alone. At last it was
dark. With all her strength she turned her boat bottom side up, shoved
it out into the lake, and threw the oars after it. Then she wrapped
herself in a dark cloak, and walked at a rapid pace up the Springton
road. When she reached the road which led to Fairfield, she stopped,
leaned against the guide-post, and looked back and hesitated. It seemed
as if the turning northward were the turning point of every thing. Her
heart was very heavy: almost her purpose failed her. "It is too late to
go back now," she said, and hurried on.

XII.

The station-master at Fairfield, if he had been asked whether a woman
took the midnight train north at Fairfield that night, would have