The sun was now well up, and as Posey paused she looked around the unfamiliar landscape. What she saw was a stretch of level, low-lying fields which merged into a wooded swamp—a thick tangle of trees and bushes whose dark line spread out as far as her eye could follow. Beyond the swamp, and at no great distance, rose a steep range of wooded hills; solid masses of gayly tinted colors they appeared that morning, following with gentle curves the windings of the swamp; and crowning the highest of these hills, rising above the trees, lifted the white spire of a church, its gilted weather-vane glittering in the sun. Before her the white road lifted in a long upward swell that made her sigh with the thought of climbing it, and shut in her view to the flat around. But one house was near—a tall gaunt house of weather-beaten red, standing on a slight knoll a little back from the road, with a single tree, a tall and sombre pine, beside it, and all the green paper curtains that shaded its front windows drawn closely down. A dreary house it was in Posey’s eyes, and the people who lived in it she thought must grow so tired of looking out on those flat pastures, tufted with hillocks of coarse, marshy grass, and the swamp with its bordering fringe of dead, grey bushes.
But it may be that to her eyes the fairest view would have taken on something of her desolate mood. In the sand that now made the road, her steps dragged heavier and more slowly, but save for brief pauses to rest she dared not stop. She was not far enough away. Oh, no, not yet. Mrs. Hagood might be hunting her even then, was the thought hurrying her on. She was hungry, too, with the crisp air, and her exertion, for all the hearty lunch she had taken at starting; but she was afraid to make any inroad on the contents of her basket, for when once that was gone she had no idea how or where she would get anything more. It would be dreadful to keep feeling so faint and hungry, and was there anybody anywhere, she wondered, who would pity her enough to give her something to eat, or take her in when it came night again? Or would she have to go on and on, till she fell down somewhere and died? And a slow trickle of tears ran down her cheeks at the foreboding. This was a hard world, she bitterly felt, for girls who had no homes. If God was good why didn’t He make homes, real homes, for all of them? She was sure she would if she were God, and especially one for poor Posey Sharpe.
A little stream, its course marked by fringing reeds and rushes, wound its way through the fields and crossed the road a little way before her, spanned there by a wooden bridge with high, close sides, overhung at each end by clumps of willows which formed a thick green screen. Slowly and wearily Posey stumbled up the slight ascent leading to the bridge; she had taken but a few steps when a loose board rattled under her tread, and a moment later she started with a little cry as the face of a boy suddenly appeared around a side at the farther end.
His eyes also grew wide with surprise, and it was no wonder, for a strange little figure it was which met his gaze. Her shoes were white with dust, her hat was jammed to one side, her cape was all askew, her gingham bundle hung limply from one arm, and in the other hand was the basket, from which she had lost her handkerchief that at first had covered it. This basket with the saucer pumpkin pie on top, was what first caught the boy’s notice, and he called out in a half bargaining, half jesting tone, “Any extra pies you want to trade for tinware this morning?” Then as he saw the tear-stains on her cheeks, into which the dust had settled in grimy streaks, and her swollen, overflowing eyes, he quickly swung himself around onto the bridge, asking, “What is it; what’s the matter?”
Now notice was of all things what Posey most dreaded, and as the morning was still early few people were yet stirring, so till now she had not attracted attention. For one thing she had been careful not to do so; since daylight she had crept carefully by the few houses she had passed, as much in the shadow of the fences as possible; and once when she saw a wagon coming, with people and trunks, as if for some railroad station, she had hidden behind a clump of bushes till they were gone by. For her great fear was that some one would send word to Mrs. Hagood, or even return her by force, and every hour but added to her fierce determination never to go back—never!
Of course she knew that she would be seen and questioned. “And I must have something ready to say,” had been her thought. “Yes, I know, when any one asks me where I am going, I shall tell them that my Aunt Mary is sick and has sent for me. I know it’s a lie, and I hate liars, but I can’t tell the truth, and if I had an Aunt Mary and she was sick I’m sure she’d send for me,” and with this she had salved her conscience. But now as she heard the friendly tone, and looked into the frank boyish face, with honest, merry blue eyes, and a kindly expression under the sunburn and freckles, she forgot all her prudent plans in a longing for the sympathy that spoke in his tone, and lifting her eyes to his she answered simply, “I’m running away.”
He gave a slight whistle of surprise, “Running away? What are you doing that for?”
By this time Posey had come close to him, and putting her bundle and basket down on the abutting stone work of the bridge, she rolled up her sleeve and showed her arm, across which ran a number of angry red welts. “And they’re worse here,” she said, putting her hand up to her shoulders.
“My!” he exclaimed, his tone full of mingled sympathy and indignation. “Whatever did you do that your mother whipped you like that?”
“She wasn’t my mother,” was the vehement reply, all Posey’s sense of outraged suffering breaking out afresh. “She was only the woman who took me from the Refuge in Cleveland; she made me work from morning till night, and scolded me the whole time; she was the crossest woman you ever saw, and she wouldn’t let me go to school after she had promised at the Refuge that I should. And she was mad and whipped me that way because I told her that she was a mean, wicked liar, just as she was.” Her eyes flashed with the remembrance.