hills would rise
about her, and far, far off she might see the mountains, fixed, cloudlike,
serene, and still, beyond the miles of rustling forest. There would be no
more great houses, built for ladies and gentlemen, but here and there, at
far distances, rude cabins, dwelt in by kind and simple folk. At such a
home, when the mountains had taken on a deeper blue, when the streams were
narrow and the level land only a memory, she would pause, would ask if she
might stay. What work was wanted she would do. Perhaps there would be
children, or a young girl like Molly, or a kind woman like Mistress Stagg;
and perhaps, after a long, long while, it would grow to seem to her like
that other cabin.

These were her rose-colored visions. At other times a terror took her by
the shoulders, holding her until her face whitened and her eyes grew wide
and dark. The way was long and the leaves were falling fast, and she
thought that it might be true that in this world into which she had
awakened there was for her no home. The cold would come, and she might
have no bread, and for all her wandering find none to take her in. In
those forests of the west the wolves ran in packs, and the Indians burned
and wasted. Some bitter night-time she would die.... Watching the sky from
Fair View windows, perhaps he might idly mark a falling star.

All that day she walked, keeping as far as was possible to the woods, but
forced now and again to traverse open fields and long stretches of sunny
road. If she saw any one coming, she hid in the roadside bushes, or, if
that could not be done, walked steadily onward, with her head bent and her
heart beating fast. It must have been a day for minding one's own
business, for none stayed or questioned her. Her dinner she begged from
some children whom she found in a wood gathering nuts. Supper she had
none. When night fell, she was glad to lay herself down upon a bed of
leaves that she had raked together; but she slept little, for the wind
moaned in the half-clad branches, and she could not cease from counting
the stars that shot. In the morning, numbed and cold, she went slowly on
until she came to a wayside house. Quaker folk lived there; and they asked
her no question, but with kind words gave her of what they had, and let
her rest and grow warm in the sunshine upon their doorstep. She thanked
them with shy grace, but presently, when they were not looking, rose and
went her way. Upon the second day she kept to