irresponsible children, however troublesome they might be. There was
entire unanimity of view so far as the main issues were concerned. It
was agreed that nobody at the poor-farm had leisure to stand guard over
Tom night and day, and that the sheriff could not be expected to spend
his time forcing him out of his hut on the blueberry plains.

There was but one more expedient to be tried, a very simple and
ingenious but radical and comprehensive one, which, in Rube Hobson's
opinion, would strike at the root of the matter.

Tom had fled from captivity for the third time.

He had stolen out at daybreak, and, by an unexpected stroke of fortune,
the molasses pail was hanging on a nail by the shed door. The remains of
a battered old bushel basket lay on the wood-pile: bottom it had none,
nor handles; rotundity of side had long since disappeared, and none
but its maker would have known it for a basket. Tom caught it up in his
flight, and, seizing the first crooked stick that offered, he slung the
dear familiar burden over his shoulder and started off on a jog-trot.

Heaven, how happy he was! It was the rosy dawn of an Indian summer
day,--a warm jewel of a day, dropped into the bleak world of yesterday
without a hint of beneficent intention; one of those enchanting weather
surprises with which Dame Nature reconciles us to her stern New England
rule.

The joy that comes of freedom, and the freedom that comes of joy, unbent
the old man's stiffened joints. He renewed his youth at every mile. He
ran like a lapwing. When his feet first struck the sandy soil of the
plains, he broke into old song of the "bloom-in' gy-ar-ding" and the
"jolly swain," and in the marvelous mental and spiritual exhilaration
born of the supreme moment he almost grasped that impossible last note.
His heard could hardly hold its burden of rapture when he caught the
well-known gleam of the white birches. He turned into the familiar
path, boy's blood thumping in old man's veins. The past week had been
a dreadful dream. A few steps more and he would be within sight, within
touch of home,--home at last! No--what was wrong? He must have gone
beyond it, in his reckless haste! Strange that he could have forgotten
the beloved spot! Can lover mistake the way to sweetheart's window? Can
child lose the path to mother's knee?

He turned,--ran hither and thither, like one distraught. A nameless
dread flitted through his dull mind, chilling his warm blood, paralyzing