Again the just wrath of a Martin was in the heart of Carol. “You know you’re fibbing!” she said almost scornfully. “I’m not going to stay here another moment. I’m not! I’m not! I’m going right home to-day where folks live who are honest, and who l-love me, and I’m not going to say I’m grateful ’cause you brought me here. I’m not! I hate you. I just hate you both!”
Dashing to the closet before the astonished woman could realize what was happening, the girl snatched her best hat from a hook and ran from the room.
The bell for Fanchon sounded through the halls. “Stop that child before she gets out of this house. Then lock her up in the coal-room,” was the imperatively given command.
“Yes, ma’am. Which way was she after goin’, ma’am?” the maid lingered to inquire.
“How can I tell, stupid! She can’t unlock the front door, so she is probably there this minute, trying to get out.”
Mrs. Clayburn was right. That was where the Irish maid found her, but instead of taking her to the dark, windowless basement-room, Fanchon quickly unlocked the front door and set her free.
“Poor little darlint,” the maid thought, as she glanced anxiously up the long flight of stairs to be sure that she was unobserved, “it’s me as is wishin’ I had a log-cabin home in the mountains I could run away to.”
Mrs. Clayburn, at an upper window, saw the small figure flying across the lawn. She went at once to the telephone and called up the bank.
“Samuel, have that child caught and brought back here at once. She’s got to beg my pardon and be properly punished before she can leave this house.”
But the banker was busy, and he failed to send any one to search for the little runaway, and so, though Mrs. Clayburn watched and waited, at noon the culprit had not been returned to her. Several hours later her husband called to say that he was going into the country on business and would not be home to dinner.