“No,” said Maria, and she ran on towards the station.
“Come home with me to my mother,” said Wollaston, pleadingly, but a little timidly. A girl in such a nervous strait as this was a new experience for him.
“She can go home with me,” said Gladys. “My mother's a heap better than Ida Slome. Say, M'ria, all them things you said was true, but land! how did you darse?”
Maria made no reply. She kept on.
“Say, M'ria, you don't mean you're goin' to New York?” said Gladys.
“Yes, I am. I am going to find my little sister.”
“My!” said Gladys.
“Now, Maria, don't you think you had better go home with me, and see mother?” Wollaston said again.
But Maria seemed deaf. In fact, she heard nothing but the sound of the approaching New York train. She ran like a wild thing, her little, slim legs skimming the ground like a bird's, almost as if assisted by wings.
When the train reached the station, Maria climbed in, Wollaston and Gladys after her. Neither Wollaston nor Gladys had the slightest premeditation in the matter; they were fairly swept along by the emotion of their companion.