She watched with eager eyes as the poor boy hurried from lot to lot, keeping as close as possible in the shadow of the trees, but as the moments passed there was no sound from the Poor Farm.
“It’s Bert Jackson!” whispered Marion as the boy came nearer. “Poor Bert! His broken arm is well again, they say! I wonder if he has been flogged that he is running away from his prison!”
She ran down the hill as swiftly as she could.
“Bert! Bert!” she called softly. “It is only I, Marion! What’s the matter, Bert? Has anything serious happened?”
The boy came out of the shadow cautiously and joined her before he answered.
“A great deal has happened,” he said, bitterly; “but I can’t talk about it. I’m just boiling with rage! I’m running away, Marion.”
“Of course,” said Marion, simply, “I knew that when I saw you, but where can you go, Bert? ’Tisn’t safe to risk the station, and besides, there’s no train now ’til to-morrow morning.”
“I know it,” answered Bert quickly. “I’m going to walk to Haysville. It’s only five miles, and there’s a train from there to New York at four in the morning.”
“New York,” echoed Marion, in a frightened whisper. “That’s a big city, Bert! Are you sure you ought to go there?”