ilent. Alex's
condemnation was the last straw.

As she went drearily up the stairway, Charlotte's thoughts turned with
a great longing to her guardian and the quiet house in Philadelphia.
He did perhaps care a little for her. He had sent her here because he
thought it best, but it had turned out a terrible mistake. She would
write to-night and tell him so. Tell him how impossible it was to
endure it any longer, and implore him to send her to boarding-school.

But would he understand? It was so difficult to write things. If only
she could be with him and Cousin Francis for half an hour and tell
them her story, she was sure she could make them see the matter as she
did. And now a daring thought entered her mind. Why not go to them?
Naturally self-reliant, the thought of the long journey by herself did
not terrify her. In the little silver purse (Aunt Cora's parting
gift) were two gold pieces,--more than enough to buy a ticket to
Philadelphia.

Charlotte's misery grew less at the picture her imagination drew of
her aunts' consternation when her flight should be discovered.
Probably there would be more talk; but little would she care, safe
with Uncle Landor.

Carried away by the excitement of the idea, she found a daily paper
and sat down in the dainty room prepared for her with so much loving
care by Aunt Virginia not three months ago, to study the time-table
and lay her plans.

There was a through train at half-past eight at night which would
exactly suit. She could steal away after supper. It was the evening
for Aunt Caroline's Antiquarian Society, and Aunt Virginia could be
easily eluded.

In stories people who ran away usually left notes. Charlotte
considered this, and decided she would write one to Aunt Virginia. It
took a long while and a great deal of note-paper was wasted before it
was done, and her enthusiasm had cooled a little as she folded it.

She carried a flushed face and an abstracted manner to the supper
table, but her aunts were evidently too much interested in some
matter they were discussing to notice her. If she had been less
absorbed, her curiosity would have been aroused by the guarded manner
in which they talked.

"It is a case where duty seems to call one in opposite directions,"
said Mrs. Millard, studying the handle of her spoon with an air of
profound seriousness that provoked one of those occasionally profane
suggestions from her sister.

"You'll have to toss up a penny," remarked