nt slowly up the stairs, and in ten minutes her
little chest and bundle of wraps were out on the yard pavement. I saw
her bargaining with Rob Kingsman to take them across to Nance Edgar's
for her. And I think she took a shilling out of her lean purse to give
him. I tell you I felt like a hog. I was a hog. I knew it and,
shamefaced, betook me to the woods as to a sty.

I had wounded Elsie to the quick, and wronged my father also.... I did
not believe that either of them would ever forgive me. For, of course,
she would go straight and tell father. I did not feel that I could
ever go back. At the wood edge I turned and looked once at the smoke
curling up from the chimney of "the Mount" kitchen. It was so hot
there was no fire in any of the other rooms. Ah, '_home, sweet, sweet
home_'!

Then I peeped at the schoolhouse, and saw Mr. Mustard and Elsie walking
slowly up to the front door together. She had had that extra lesson,
the nature of which she had not thought fit to tell me. Then she would
go--well, no matter where. It was all over between us at any rate.

Did you ever know such a fool? Why, yes--there was yourself, dear
reader--that is, if you have been wise. If not, it may not even yet be
too late to be foolish.

I wasted the day in the woods. That is, I took out my pocket-book,
jerked my fountain pen into some activity, and scribbled verses. I was
too proud to go back home. And I knew well that my father had accepted
in its fullest sense the doctor's advice, "Let him run!" He would
neither send after me himself nor allow anyone else to meddle with my
comings and goings.

It was curious and fascinating to linger about the Deep Moat Woods,
once so terrible, now become a haunt of the sightseer and the day
tripper. But I who had seen so much there, and heard more, who with
beating heart had adventured so often into these darkling recesses,
could not lose all at once the impression of brooding danger they had
given me, ever since that first morning when Elsie and I crossed the
road and plunged into them on the day of poor Harry Foster's death.

I suppose it was the moody state of my mind (Elsie unkindly calls it
"sulks") which led me to stay on and on till the afternoon became the
evening, and the shadows of the trees over the pond became more and
more gloomy--mere dark purple with blobs and blotches of fire where the
sunset clouds showed between the leaves.

I stood leaning against the trunk