"You're gritty," said the woman, admiringly. "Now I'll tell you what I've laid out. I'm goin' to guide you through the woods to the Moss Glen Station. When we git mos' there, I'll skedaddle home an' to bed, 'cause I don't want sister to find me out. Here's an extry pair o' stockin's an' shoes to put on before you board the train. You'll git yours full o' snow water. If all goes as I calc'late, you'll have time to change 'em in the station. You don't want to git sick so you can't stand up to that ole man. Here's a little tippet for your shoulders. Dillson told sister to give you a shawl, but she'll not do it. An' he paid her, too. Now come, let's start."
'Tilda Jane brushed her hand over her eyes, resolutely picked up her dog, and followed her guide out to the kitchen.
Ruth Ann caught up a shawl, threw it over her head, and opened the door. "My—it's black! I guess we'll have to take a lantern."
She turned back, fumbled in a corner of the kitchen, struck a light, then rejoined 'Tilda Jane.
For some minutes they plodded on in silence. Then Ruth Ann said, anxiously, "I don' know what I'll do if it don't snow. She'll track us sure—me, big feet, an' you, smaller ones. Glory, it's snowin' now!"
A sudden wind had sprung up in the black, quiet night, and whirled a few flakes of snow in their faces. Then the snow began to fall from above, gently and quietly, flake by flake.
'Tilda Jane struggled along the heavy road in the wake of the tall woman ahead. The small dog seemed to have grown larger, and lay a heavy burden in her arms. Yet she uttered no word of complaint. Her mind was in a whirl, and she gave no thought to physical fatigue. What was she doing? Had she—a little girl—any right to give so much trouble to grown people? Her actions were exactly in opposition to every precept that had been instilled into her mind. Children should be seen and not heard. Children should wait on grown people. Children must not lie under any circumstances. They must be obedient, truthful, honest, and uncomplaining. Perhaps she ought to go back to the orphan asylum. She could stand punishment herself—but her dog? They would make her give him up. Some boy would get him. Boys were all mischievous at times. Could she endure the thought of that little feeble frame subjected to torture? She could not, and steeling her heart against the asylum, the matron, and the lady managers, she walked on more quickly than ever.
She would never forget that ghostly walk through the woods. The narrow way wound always between high snow-laden sentinels of trees. The sickly, slanting gleam of the lantern lighted only a few steps ahead. Mystery and solemnity were all about her; the pure and exquisite snow, on which they were putting their black-shod feet, was to her the trailing robe of an angel who had gone before. The large, flat snowflakes, showered on her erring head, were missives from the skies, "Go back, little girl, go back."
"Lord, I can't go back," she repeated, stubbornly, "but I'll repent some more, by and by. Please take away the sick feeling in the middle of my stomach. I can't enjoy anythin'."