lm. Go to your room right away and pick up
anything you will want to take with you, and I'll go down and see that
Phoebe takes your place and then come back."

David and the Squire went out like two men who had suddenly grown old, and
had not the strength to walk rapidly. No one thought any more of
breakfast. It was half-past seven by the old tall clock that stood upon
the stair-landing. It would not be long before Aunt Polly and Uncle Joab
would be driving up to the door.

Straight ahead went the preparations, just as if nothing had happened, and
if Mistress Kate Leavenworth could have looked into her old room an hour
after the discovery of her flight she would have been astonished beyond
measure.

Up in her own room stood poor bewildered Marcia. She looked about upon her
little white bed, and thought she would never likely sleep in it again.
She looked out of the small-paned window with its view of distant hill and
river, and thought she was bidding it good-bye forever. She went toward
her closet and put out her hand to choose what she would take with her,
and her heart sank. There hung the faded old ginghams short and scant, and
scorned but yesterday, yet her heart wildly clung to them. Almost would
she have put one on and gone back to her happy care-free school life. The
thought of the new life frightened her. She must give up her girlhood all
at once. She might not keep a vestige of it, for that would betray David.
She must be Kate from morning to evening. Like a sword thrust came the
remembrance that she had envied Kate, and God had given her the punishment
of being Kate in very truth. Only there was this great difference. She was
not the chosen one, and Kate had been. She must bear about forever in her
heart the thought of Kate's sin.

The voice of her stepmother drew nearer and warned her that her time alone
was almost over, and out on the lawn she could hear the voices of Uncle
Joab and Aunt Polly who had just arrived.

She dropped upon her knees for one brief moment and let her young soul
pour itself out in one great cry of distress to God, a cry without words
borne only on the breath of a sob. Then she arose, hastily dashed cold
water in her face, and dried away the traces of tears. There was no more
time to think. With hurried hand she began to gather a few trifles
together from closet and drawer.

One last lingering look she took about her room as she left it, her arms
filled with the things she had h