es were
to begin. Miss Hatchard, pale with fatigue and excitement, thanked her
young assistants, and stood in the porch, leaning on her crutches and
waving a farewell as she watched them troop away down the street.

Charity had slipped off among the first; but at the gate she heard Ally
Hawes calling after her, and reluctantly turned.

"Will you come over now and try on your dress?" Ally asked, looking at
her with wistful admiration. "I want to be sure the sleeves don't ruck
up the same as they did yesterday."

Charity gazed at her with dazzled eyes. "Oh, it's lovely," she said, and
hastened away without listening to Ally's protest. She wanted her dress
to be as pretty as the other girls'--wanted it, in fact, to outshine the
rest, since she was to take part in the "exercises"--but she had no time
just then to fix her mind on such matters....

She sped up the street to the library, of which she had the key about
her neck. From the passage at the back she dragged forth a bicycle, and
guided it to the edge of the street. She looked about to see if any of
the girls were approaching; but they had drifted away together toward
the Town Hall, and she sprang into the saddle and turned toward the
Creston road. There was an almost continual descent to Creston, and with
her feet against the pedals she floated through the still evening
air like one of the hawks she had often watched slanting downward on
motionless wings. Twenty minutes from the time when she had left Miss
Hatchard's door she was turning up the wood-road on which Harney had
overtaken her on the day of her flight; and a few minutes afterward she
had jumped from her bicycle at the gate of the deserted house.

In the gold-powdered sunset it looked more than ever like some frail
shell dried and washed by many seasons; but at the back, whither Charity
advanced, drawing her bicycle after her, there were signs of recent
habitation. A rough door made of boards hung in the kitchen doorway,
and pushing it open she entered a room furnished in primitive camping
fashion. In the window was a table, also made of boards, with an
earthenware jar holding a big bunch of wild asters, two canvas chairs
stood near by, and in one corner was a mattress with a Mexican blanket
over it.

The room was empty, and leaning her bicycle against the house Charity
clambered up the slope and sat down on a rock under an old apple-tree.
The air was perfectly still, and from where she sat she would