"Oh, yes, very easily; travel all night, and you'll be there in the morning. S'pose you're going, with everybody else, to see the woman executed, eh? Lord bless me! what's the matter with her?" said the man, in dismay, as Christie, with a loud, indescribable cry, hid her face in her hands.
"Nothing! nothing!" said Willard, and with a face perfectly colorless. "What time—at what hour, I mean, does this execution take place?"
"Nine in the morning; has to be early on account of the mob. Nobody ever heard tell of such a mass of people as will be there. Most as many as at the Day of Judgment."
"Can you not start right away?"
"No, couldn't before an hour."
"Is there any other conveyance to be hired near?"
"No, there ain't," said the man, shortly; "everybody wants their own to take themselves there. If it's to see her hung you want, you'll be plenty time when I start."
There was no help for it; and Willard and his equally impatient companions were obliged to wait almost two hours before the farmer was ready to start. Then he and his wife mounted on the front seat, and Willard and Christie sat behind, and throwing her arms around his neck, Christie bade Uncle Reuben a last farewell.
"Good-by, little Christie!" he said, sorrowfully, "Good-by, and Heaven bless thee. I will come to see thee some day soon."
And then good Uncle Reuben entered his donkey-cart, and turned his sad face toward the lonesome forest cottage, doubly lonesome now. And Christie, shrinking closer to Willard, laid her tired head on his arm, too weary and exhausted even to weep for the friend she had left.