"Go, then, my Robert of the lion-heart, go, you dear knight-errant, and have your way. And whatever comes of it we shall never regret it, for we shall remember that you loyally played your part in defence of us all—all, here and beyond," whispered Rob's mother.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ITS BRAVE DAUGHTER
There was but one really fast train between Fayre and New York, and that left Fayre at quarter to eight in the morning. Not too early, however, for Rob, acting rapidly on her hardly won permission to go to the rescue of her family, to be ready to take her place among its passengers.
There had been wild excitement in the little grey house on the previous night, after that permission had been won, getting together Rob's few requirements for her unwonted journey, and discussing in all its aspects the great feat she was to perform.
But now her pretty face, pale under the black hat surmounting the wayward hair, and big-eyed from sorrow and excitement, looked with brave smiles out of the car-window at Wythie and Prue and the Rutherford boys on the platform as they waved Rob on her way, and the train started. Rob had never felt more childish and dependent in her life than now, when, for the first time, she was acting like a woman, and going down to the great city to try to arrange a most important business matter.
When Fayre station was left behind, and Wythie and Prue could no longer see her, Rob allowed herself a good cry—the world seemed so big and hollow, and she felt so little and helpless! But in half an hour she was drying her eyes, and beginning to lay her plans, and to wonder, with quickened heart-beats, which were rather stimulating than depressing, how she was to find Mr. Baldwin, or even Broadway, since she did not know one street from another in the maelstrom that is the second city of the world.
It was almost the bright-faced Rob whom her father had known that drew her breath long and hard after the tedious tunnel was passed, and began setting herself right and pulling herself together as irregular and ugly buildings slipped by her in crowds, and the train entered the Grand Central Station.
She took her place in the line, edging her suit-case—hastily borrowed from the Rutherfords late the preceding night—between the wedged passengers, and crawled along toward the door, too confused to feel much beyond a strong wish that the person in front of her was shorter and leaned back less, since he entirely prevented her hat from keeping straight.