advance by
Lucy), and Phyllis Flower, carrying the hedgehog, came in. She drew down
the bedclothes and laid the hedgehog so that its prickles would just
touch the child in case she moved, and then as carefully withdrew. She
hated herself for having done it. All was quiet in that part of the
house, which was far away from the schoolrooms, and no one heard a child
give a terrible scream a few minutes later; and no one saw that same
child spring out of bed, hastily put on her clothes, and rush downstairs
in wild distress and despair.

Lucy had meant to be close at hand to comfort little Agnes when fright
overtook her. But she had been called away to do some writing for her
father. Laura Everett was busy attending to her own work. Phyllis Flower
was in bed and asleep. She had earned her trip to London, and was
dreaming about the delights of that time. No one heard that scream,
which was at once faint and piteous. No one heard the little feet speed
through the hall, and no one saw the little figure stealthily leave the
house. Little Agnes was going to run away. Yes, there was no doubt
whatever now in her mind: her darling Irene was a fairy, a changeling.
She had done the most cruel and awful thing.

When little Agnes had seen the hedgehog in her bed she was far too
terrified even to recognize the nature of the creature that had been
made her bedfellow. But she felt sure that Lucy's words were right: that
Irene was a wicked changeling, and that the sooner she got away from her
the better. The child was too young to reason, too simple by nature to
give any thought to double-dealing. All she wanted now was to get away.
She could not stay another minute in the house. Her love for Irene was
swallowed up altogether by her wild terror. She trembled; she shook from
head to foot.

It was a bitterly cold winter's night, and the child was only
half-clothed. She had forgotten to put on anything but her house-shoes,
and had not even a hat on her head. But that did not matter. She was
out, and there was no terrible Irene to come near her, no wicked fairy
to do her damage. She would stay out all night if necessary. She would
hide from Irene. She could never be her friend again.

The terror in her little heart rendered her quite unreasonable for the
time being. She was, in short, past reason. By-and-by she crept into the
old bower where Rosamund and Irene had spent a midsummer night--a night
altogether very different from the present on