"Hush, Pilot," whispered Meg in a concentrated voice; "don't bark, not on any account, Pilot! I am running away because I am miserable. Good-by, old Pilot!"
Pilot looked at Meg with questioning eyes, debating the reasonableness of her speech. He apparently hesitated to commend the step she was taking, for he did not return her greeting with any demonstration, but remained with head erect and pricked ears surveying her, and let her go in silence.
Meg went round to the kitchen-garden. She had decided to escape that way. The wall was covered with a trellis-work on which fruit was trained. Meg threw her parcel lightly over and began to clamber. She heard the unripe plums fall as she climbed with a sure-footedness that was one of her claims to the title of "savage" bestowed upon her by her schoolmates. With the agility of a squirrel she swung herself over and dropped among the nettles that grew at the base of the wall.
She sprang to her feet, picked up her parcel, conscious of one dominant emotion only—she was out of Moorhouse; she was free! Like a bird winging its way to more genial climes Meg dashed forward.
Across two fields at the back of the house, the bright road lay before her; her escape was made. Not a soul was up, and forgetting that she should economize her strength she ran gladly along, when suddenly an object arrested her eyes and riveted her to the spot. There, at the stile, facing the field, the path through which issued on to the highroad, stood a figure. The face was turned away, but Meg recognized that straight back, that dark dress with austere folds, that severe straw bonnet. It was Miss Grantley.
Was it some waking nightmare, an illusion of frightened fancy? Meg remembered the furtive click of the door. Could her escape have been discovered, and the mistress be lying in wait for her? With desperate resolve, after a moment, Meg determined to chance it. She would creep beside the hedge that led round the stile, and once on the other side she would trust to fortune and to her heels to escape pursuit. She began softly to move; a spray of woodbine caught her skirt—she disentangled it with trembling fingers; a puddle barred the way; she prepared to leap over it, watching that figure with terror. Something in its stillness, its stiffness, and its bent head frightened her. She thought she would call out and speak to it. As she hesitated the figure turned round, and Meg saw, not Miss Grantley, but a stranger whom she had seen at church and admired for her young and peaceful countenance. The lady was holding carefully something lying in her hollowed hand. Perceiving Meg she beckoned. The coil of fear about Meg's heart loosened, and she breathed again.
"Look at this poor chick!" said the stranger. "It has dropped from the nest. See how the mother is hovering round. Poor mother, we will not hurt your little one. God takes care of the fallen nestlings."
"Shall I put it back into the nest?" said Meg impulsively, feeling generous under the impression of that great relief.
"Can you climb?" said the stranger.