"So did oneself. One came to see if anything were the matter; but she sleeps calmly enough." The lie saved him.

"Come, Martha, my dear," he said, as he closed the door, "one will deal with her tomorrow."

There, however, he was wrong.

The sights of the past half hour had of course excited me beyond measure, but I already reflected that they could be put to use; a very handy lever to turn Aunt Jael's wrath from me to him. Once again, how was I to get to Aunt Jael? I reckoned that hours must still pass before it was light enough for me to read Robbie's letter. I got up again from the mattress to sit on the chair and await the dawn. My feet crunched against something; it was a box of matches Uncle Simeon must have dropped in his excitement. By striking these one after another I read:

Dear Dear Mary: Here is the money for the coach. I am going tomorrow morning. The door is bolted, it is no good that way, but I have found a way. You wait till eleven o'clock tomorrow morning, that will be the morning you find this, then get out by the little window in the roof, it is quite safe I have made sure. There is a drain pipe begins at the very top where the sloping part of the roof stops, you must climb down that, it gets you down into the back yard, and the back yard door is not locked, I've taken the key. Then take the coach or run or anything to Tawborough. Get away from here, that's all, you must. There is no danger, it will be quite easy to climb down, you'll not hurt. I am always, always going to think of you and next Christmas we will meet properly like you said.

Your loving
Robbie.

P. S. Happy New Year.

I kissed the letter.

There was no time to be lost. I wrapped Aunt Martha's cape round me and put on my shoes,—indoor slippers without a strap, poor enough footwear for an eight mile walk. I clambered on to the chair and lifted the heavy handle of the sky-light window. The damp air of a raw winter's night crept into the room.

How I ever got to the ground, I do not know. Somehow I slithered down the sloping roof till my feet touched the ledge Robbie had spoken of; somehow I found the drain pipe, and somehow I clambered down. The yard door was open as he had said, and I walked through it into the deathly silent street, breathing a sigh of intense relief that I remember to this day. I broke immediately into a run, that I might put between me and that accursed house as much distance with as small delay as possible; when I was halfway across the old bridge I looked back at it, dimly silhouetted against the winter's night.

"Good-bye Robbie!" I called.

I crossed the bridge and climbed the hill. Very soon I was foot-sore; the toe that had caught on the beam in the roof-room began to bleed, and my shoes kept slipping off. I was cold, hungry, sore, cramped and faint. The cold slow rain, somewhere between drizzle and sleet, beat upon my face. By all the tenets of melodrama my escape should have been through deep crisp snow with the valiant horned moon astride the sky. There was no moon, and sleet is crueller than snow. After a while, I lost one of my shoes, turned back, peered about for it, was unable to find it; kicked away the other and ran along in my stockinged feet. Both feet were soon bleeding. After a mile or so, when I could run no further, I trudged or rather hobbled along, keeping to the middle of the road, which was the easiest and least muddy part. At moments the temptation to sit down was almost irresistible; sleep more than half possessed me. I clenched my teeth and kept on, will power eking out what little physical force was left. I prayed continuously.