“Walk where?” he inquired. “You told your aunt you were going away to get married. You’ll have hard work explaining that you changed your mind; and you’ll have hard work getting home at all without a penny. Come! Here’s the train. Don’t be a little fool!”
The long, mournful hoot of the approaching engine came to her ears.
“Oh, give me my purse!” she cried in terror and despair. “Oh, please! Oh, please, Ladislaw!”
“I won’t,” he said. “If you won’t come with me, I’ll leave you here alone. You’ll be sorry, Ethel. You’ll lose your chance to be a singer, and you’ll lose more than that. Your aunt won’t take this very well.”
She looked around in anguish. The ticket office was closed for the night, and there were only strangers on the platform. All about that little lighted oasis were the woods and fields and tiny distant houses, filled with more strangers.
V
“Ethel!” cried a voice.
It was the voice of the one person who would understand and help and solace her—a voice she could never hear again in this world, strong, tender, and clear.
“Oh, mother!” she cried.
“Ethel!”