As she was whirled rapidly along through wharves and shipping and lumber, away from the roar of the city, and out where woods and green fields lined the way, she began, for the first time, to think what she was doing, and to wonder if she were doing right. Her anger at her aunt, and the utter disappointment and homesickness of her Boston visit, had swept away, for a few moments, all her power of reasoning. To get home, to see her mother,—to hide her head on her shoulder and cry,—this was the one thought that had turned itself over and over in her mind, on that quick ride from Beacon Street, and in that hour spent in the dark corner of the depot. Here she was, running like a thief from her uncle’s house, without a word of good-by or thanks for his hospitality, with no message to tell him where she had gone but that note, hastily written in the first flush of her hurt and angry feelings. And the hurrying train was whirling her over hill and valley faster and farther. To go back was impossible, go on she must. What had she done?
She began now, too, to wonder where she should spend the night. The train went only as far as Rutland, and it would be late and dark when she reached the town—far too late for a little girl to be travelling alone, and to spend a night in a strange hotel, in a strange place. What should she do?
As the afternoon passed, and the twilight fell, and the lamps were lighted, and people hurried out at way-stations to safe and waiting homes, her loneliness and anxiety increased. Just before entering Rutland, a young man, dressed in a dandyish manner, and partially intoxicated, entered the car, and took the empty seat by Gypsy. She did not like his looks, and moved away slightly, turning to look out of the window.
“No offense, I hope?” said the man, with a foolish smile; “the car was full.”
Gypsy made no reply.
“Travelling far?” he said, a moment after.
“To Rutland, sir,” said Gypsy, feeling very uneasy, as she perceived the odor of rum, and wishing he would not talk to her.
“Friends there?” said the man again.
“N—no, sir,” said Gypsy, reluctantly. “I am going to the hotel.”
“Stranger in town? What hotel do you go to?”