opened with a sharp creak, and Harry was sure he was
detected. For several minutes he waited, but no sound was heard, and
more carefully he opened the door wide enough to permit his passage
out.

He was now in the open air, and a sensation of relief pervaded his
mind. He was free. No man was his master in this world, and he had not
learned to think much of the other world. As he passed through the cow
yard he heard the old gray mare whinny, and he could not resist the
temptation to pay her a parting visit. They had been firm friends for
years, and as he entered the barn she seemed to recognize him in the
darkness.

"Good-by, old Prue. I am going away to leave you," said Harry, in low
tones, as he patted the mare upon her neck. "I hope they will use you
well. Next to Mr. Nason, you have been my best friend. Good-by, old
Prue."

The mare whinnied again, as though she perfectly comprehended this
affectionate speech, and wished to express her sympathy with her young
friend in her own most eloquent language. Perhaps Harry could not
render the speech into the vernacular, but he had a high appreciation
of her good feeling, and repeated his caresses.

"Good-by, old Prue; but, before I go, I shall give you one more feed
of oats--the very last."

The localities of the barn were as familiar to him as those of his own
chamber; and taking the half peck measure, he filled it heaping full
of oats at the grain chest as readily as though it had been clear
daylight.

"Here, Prue, is the last feed I shall give you"; and he emptied the
contents of the measure into the trough. "Good-by, old Prue; I shall
never see you again."

The mare plunged her nose deep down into the savory mess, and seemed
for a moment to forget her friend in the selfish gratification of her
appetite. If she had fully realized the unpleasant fact that Harry was
going, perhaps she might have been less selfish, for this was not the
first time she had been indebted to him for extra rations.

Passing through the barn, the runaway was again in the open air.
Everything looked gloomy and sad to him, and the scene was as solemn
as a funeral. There were no sounds to be heard but the monotonous
chirp of the cricket, and the dismal piping of the frogs in the
meadow. Even the owl and the whip-poor-will had ceased their nocturnal
notes, and the stars looked more gloomy than he had ever seen them
before.

There was no time to moralize over these things, though, as he w