and, forgetting the hat,
the frock, the chaff that clung to my matted hair and the grime of my
shirt, she ran to me, threw her arms about my neck and cried:
"Davy--Davy--I don't want to go!"

I knew that she had to go, and though the tears seemed to burst up in a
great flood from my heart, I would not show them in my eyes. Tears are
unmanly--unboyly rather--and I fought them back, but for them I could not
speak. My father took Penelope from me. He lifted her in his arms and
carried her out of the house and down the path to the gate, where the
carriage was waiting. He placed her on the seat; he straightened out her
rumpled frock, and even crossed her hands upon her lap, as though she
were quite incapable of doing anything for herself. Then he kissed her.
It was the first time I had ever seen him kiss her. When he spoke it was
to say good-by to Rufus Blight, who was in his seat, pulling on a pair of
yellow gloves.

"We shall all meet again, very soon," said Mr. Blight omnipotently, as
though Fate were a henchman of his. "You must all come to Pittsburgh to
see us. It's a lively, pushing town, and you'll enjoy it." Leaning from
the carriage and holding out his hand to me, he added: "And you,
Davy--you will come very, very soon."

I believed him. But the dream that he had conjured for us of the days to
come, of his lively, pushing town, the fastest trotters, the wonderful
boat, were shattered by contact with the harsh fact of this parting.

I looked past him at Penelope, sitting very straight, with her hands in
her lap as my father had placed them. There was a giant frog in my
throat, but I conquered it as I had conquered my tears, and speaking very
steadily, I said: "Good-by, Penelope--I'll not forget. Some day I will
take care of you."

She did not turn. Her eyes held right ahead, but she answered bravely:
"Good-by, Davy. I'll see you soon--very soon. Remember----"

The rest I did not hear. A medley of hoofs, harness and wheels broke in
and she was away to a new world and a new life. The brave little figure
bowed suddenly, and the roses and the tulle, the precious creation of the
Martinsburg modiste, were ruthlessly crushed against the sleek bulk of
the man who had never had a real idea.

CHAPTER VII

That the Professor, with fear at his heels and the devils of
retribution clutching at his flying coat-tails, should have plunged
into silence when the bush closed around him was not strange. E