oorstep barked sharply at a stranger who
was close upon him, and the irate father was obliged to smooth his
manner.

Elizabeth escaped to the bedroom as her father crossed to the kitchen to
see what the man wanted, and Mr. Farnshaw went on out to the pens a moment
later with the "hog buyer," as the man proved to be.

"My God! My God! What have you done?" Mrs. Farnshaw cried, following
Elizabeth into the bedroom.

"I don't know, ma," the girl cried, as white as her mother. "I'm going to
get off to hunt up a school while that man is here. The sun has come out
and it's only ten o'clock. If you're afraid, come along," she advised, as
she hurried into a clean calico dress and took down her old black riding
skirt from its nail.

"Lizzie!" the mother exclaimed, as much afraid of the advice as she was of
her husband.

There was little time left her for argument, for Elizabeth hurriedly tied
a thick green veil over her plain straw hat and left the house. The hog
pens were on the opposite side of the stable from the house and Elizabeth
soon had Patsie, now a mare of five years, saddled and bridled.

The air was softening, and it occurred to her that it was going to rain,
as she hurried out of the yard, but she did not wait to get extra wraps
nor her umbrella. The best thing to do, she knew, was to get away while
that hog buyer was there and trust to luck for the edge of her father's
anger to wear away before she returned.

Fortunately she had worn her old coat, which was heavy and waterproof, and
when it did begin to rain half an hour later, instead of turning back she
pressed forward, more afraid of the thunderstorm at home than any to be
encountered on the way.

Elizabeth rode steadily southward, thinking out her share in this new
quarrel in which she had embroiled her parents, unaware that as it
drizzled it became warmer and that the day had become spring-like and
endurable. She began to question the propriety of having suggested drastic
measures to her mother. "Till death do you part" rang in her ears in spite
of the certainty that the union of her mother and her father was an unholy
thing which was damning them more surely than a separation could possibly
do. Of only one thing could Elizabeth be sure: she saw without mistake at
last that she must decide upon her own duties hereafter without listening
to a mother who could not decide anything for herself.

The director of the district to which Elizabeth first turned