"Don't you take no pains to remember it before sister," said the woman, with a chuckle, "if you don't want me to live an' die in hot water. Good luck to you. Shut the winder, an' put a stick on the fire," and she strode off through the snow.
'Tilda Jane shuddered. She was not a nervous child, yet the knowledge that she was alone in a forest pressed and bore down upon her. However, she was out of the increasing storm. She had got her guilty feet off that angel's trailing robe, and the little letters from heaven were not dashing in her face, nor was there any danger now that one of the groaning trees bending to lament over her would fall and crush her shrinking form.
They were creaking all around the circular opening—those spying trees—staring through the curtainless windows at her, and instead of throwing on more wood, and making a blaze that would enable her to be plainly seen, she opened the stove door, and, cowering over the embers, changed her wet foot-gear, and tried to dry her clinging skirts.
She was entirely miserable until the frightened dog crept into her arms. Here was something weaker and more in need of protection than herself, and, hugging him closely to her, she prepared to spend the rest of the night in a patient waiting for the morning.
[CHAPTER V.]
ANOTHER ADVENTURE.
The quietest and most undemonstrative passenger on the night train from Boston was the shabby little girl in the corner, with the bundle beside her on the seat.
The conductor, after one sharp glance, paid no attention to her, the brakemen paid no attention to her, the boy with the gum-drops and novels ignored her. She had the air of knowing where she was going, and also of being utterly uninteresting, and greatly to her relief she was left entirely to her own devices.