mporary charge of the lodgings was not
curious, and the lonely young teacher was able to carry out her design.
She left Weston alone in the cold dawn of a dark morning, her face
turned eastward.

It was a courageous journey; only Herr Scheffel to rely upon, and the
great stony-hearted city to encounter in the hard struggle for daily
bread. Yet she felt that she must not linger in Weston; and she felt,
too, that she must not add herself to Miss Lois's cares, but rather make
a strong effort to secure a new position as soon as possible, in order
to send money to Andre. She thought that she would be safely hidden at
the half-house. Heathcote knew that Jeanne-Armande was in Europe, and
therefore he would not think of her in connection with Lancaster, but
would suppose that she was still in Weston, or, if not there, then at
home on her Northern island. In addition, one is never so well hidden as
in the crowds of a large city. But when she saw the spires, as the train
swept over the salt marshes, her heart began to beat: the blur of roofs
seemed so vast, and herself so small and alone! But she made the transit
safely, and drove up to the door of the half-house in the red wagon,
with Li as driver, at sunset. A figure was sitting on the steps outside,
with a large bundle at its feet; it was Nora. Anne opened the door with
Jeanne-Armande's key, and they entered together.

"Oh, wirra, wirra! Miss Douglas dear, and did ye know she'd taken out
all the furrrniture? Sure the ould shell is impty." It was true, and
drearily unexpected.

Jeanne-Armande, finding time to make a flying visit to her country
residence the day before she sailed, had been seized with the sudden
suspicion that certain articles were missing, notably a green wooden
pail and a window-curtain. The young priest, who had met her there by
appointment, and opened the door for her with his key (what mazes of
roundabout ways homeward, in order to divert suspicion, Jeanne-Armande
required of him that day!), was of the opinion that she was mistaken.
But no; Jeanne-Armande was never mistaken. She knew just where she had
left that pail, and as for the pattern of the flowers upon that curtain,
she knew every petal. Haunted by a vision of the abstraction of all her
household furniture, piece by piece, during her long absence--tables,
chairs, pans, and candle-sticks following each other through back
windows, moved by invisible hands--she was seized with an inspiration on
the