t with pictures of Elizabeth Stanhope and her
bridegroom that was to have been. Jane cut away the bridegroom and
pasted the bride's picture in the flyleaf of her Bible, then hid it away
in the bottom of her trunk.

CHAPTER VII

WHEN Betty found herself seated on the day coach of a way train, jogging
along toward a town she had never seen and away from the scenes and
people of her childhood, she found herself trembling violently. It was
as if she had suddenly been placed in an airplane all by herself and
started off to the moon without any knowledge of her motor power or
destination. It both frightened and exhilarated her. She wanted to cry
and she wanted to laugh, but she did neither. Instead she sat demurely
for the first hour and a half looking out of the window like any
traveler, scarcely turning her head nor looking at anything in the car.
It seemed to her that there might be a detective in every seat just
waiting for her to lift her eyes that he might recognize her. But
gradually as the time dragged by and the landscape grew monotonous she
began to feel a little more at her ease. Furtively she studied her
neighbors. She had seldom traveled in a common car, and it was new to
her to study all types as she could see them here. She smiled at a dirty
baby and wished she had something to give it. She studied the careworn
man and the woman in black who wept behind her veil and would not smile
no matter how hard the man tried to make her. It was a revelation to her
that any man would try as hard as that to make a woman smile. She
watched the Italian family with five children and nine bundles, and
counted the colors on a smart young woman who got in at a way station.
Every minute of the day was interesting. Every mile of dreary November
landscape that whirled by gave her more freedom.

She opened the little shabby handbag that Jane had given her and got out
the bit of mirror one inch by an inch and a half backed with pasteboard
on which lingered particles of the original green taffeta lining and
studied her own strange face, trying to get used to her new self and her
new name. Jane had written it, Lizzie Hope, on the back of the envelope
containing the address of Mrs. Carson. It seemed somehow an
identification card. She studied it curiously and wondered if Lizzie
Hope was going to be any happier than Betty Stanhope had been. And then
she fell to thinking over the strange experiences of the last
twenty-four hours