with a backward glance at that
unconscious favorite marching towards its doom.

"There is no time to think of poor Balaam now," replied Ruth. "Run on in
front of me, and don't step on anything crackly."

"Never in this world," thought Ruth, "will I come alone here with Molly
again. Never again will I--"

But it was stiff climbing, and the remainder of the resolution was lost.

They are high to the right above the white gate now. The keeper's
cottage is in sight, built against a ledge of rock, up to which wide
rough steps have been cut in the sandstone. Ruth looks down at the gate
below. He is waiting--the dreadful man is waiting there, as she
expected; and Balaam, toying with a fern, is at that moment coming round
the corner. She sees that he takes in the situation instantly. There is
but one way in which they can have fled, and he knows it. In a moment he
comes halting and pounding up the slope. He sees their white dresses
among the firs. Run, Molly! run, Ruth! Spare no expense. If your new
black sash catches in the briers, let it catch; heed it not, for he is
making wonderful play with that lame leg up the hill. It is an even
race. Now for the stone steps! How many more there are than there ever
were before! Quick through the wicket, and up through the little
kitchen-garden. Molly is at the door first, beating upon it, and calling
wildly on the name of Brown.

And then Ruth's heart turns sick within her. The door is locked. Through
the window, which usually blossoms with geraniums, she can see the black
fireplace and the bare walls. No Brown within answers to Molly's cries.
Brown has been turned away for drinking. Mrs. Brown, who hung a slender
"wash" on the hedge only last week, has departed with her lord. Brown's
cottage is tenantless. The pursuer must have known it when he breasted
the hill. A mixed sound, as of swearing and stumbling, comes from the
direction of the stone steps. The pursuer is evidently intoxicated,
probably lunatic!

"Quick, Molly!" gasps Ruth, "round by the back, and then cut down
towards the young plantation, and make for the road again. Don't stop
for me."

The little yard, the pigsty, the water-butt, fly past. Past fly the
empty kennels. Past does _not_ fly the other gate. Locked; padlocked!
It is like a bad dream. Molly, with a windmill-like exhibition of black
legs, gives Ruth a lead over. Now for it, Ruth! The bars are close
together and the gate is high. It is not a time to stick