ng bags in the granary, but Bud felt that
he could not bear to see him. He went to his own room and hurriedly
changed his clothes. He had only one thought--to get away--to get
away where no one knew him. In the last few hours the whole world had
changed for him--that Mr. Burrell should so easily believe him guilty
had overflowed his cup of bitterness.

A red and silver scripture text, in the form of a shield, hung on his
bedroom wall; Martha had given it to him, some time ago, and it had
often brought him comfort and inspiration.

"He is able to deliver you," it said.

Bud read it now scornfully, and with a sudden impulse tore it down
and crushed it in his hands. "There's nothing in it," the boy cried
bitterly.

He went out to the pasture and whistled to his pacing colt, which
came to him at once. The boy laid his head on the colt's velvet neck
and patted it lovingly.

"I'll come back for you, Bunko," he said. "You're mine, anyway."

The colt rubbed his head against Bud's arm.

Across the ravine, where the fringed blue gentian looked up from the
sere grass, the cows were grazing, and Bud, from habit, went for them
and brought them up to the bars.

The sun was setting when Bud reached the Cavers's house, for he could
not go without saying good-bye to Libby Anne. She was driving their
two cows in from a straw stack, and called gaily to him when she saw
him coming.

"I've come to say good-bye, Lib," said Bud simply.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I don't know--anywhere to get away from here." Then he told her what
had happened.

"I'm glad you took a smash at Tom Steadman," she said, her big eyes
flashing, when he had finished. Then suddenly she began to cry. "I
don't want you to go," she sobbed. "You won't ever come back; I won't
see you ever again."

"Don't say that, Libby," Bud cried in real distress--she looked so
little and pale in her black dress--"I will come back some time, and
I won't forget my little girl. You're my girl, you know, Lib."

"I'm your girl all right," the child said unsteadily. "But I want you
to stay. I can't make up things like Pearl and Mary Watson can--I can
do some pretendin' games pretty good now, but I can't pretend about
you--I'll know you're gone all the time, Bud," and she caught her
breath in a quivering sob.

Then Bud lifted the little girl in his arms and kissed her over and
over again.

"Don't cry, Libby," he said. "I'm going away to make lots of money,
and