"You don't mean to say you're going to steal a ride!" exclaimed the man.
Very likely this was meant for a joke, but Elsie took it for sober earnest. She had been called a "tramp" last night; now she was taken for a thief. It was too dreadful. She looked here and there, if perchance there might be some way of escape from all this misery, and suddenly—why!—what?—that boy on the platform of the Eastern Dépôt—could it be?
"Joe! Joe!" shrieked Elsie.
It was Joe: a very wretched Joe, a Joe who had not slept a wink all night, though he had gone home in a vain hope he might find the missing sister there.
He saw Elsie. He sprang toward her. He clambered on the car almost before it stopped. He hugged her, he kissed her. Boy though he was, he wept great tears over her. Then he took her by both shoulders and shook her.
"Oh, you bad girl! Where have you been? You've frightened mother 'most to death. Elsie, Elsie, what made you come to Portland?"
"You brought me, Joe," said Elsie, humbly.
Home they went, those two. At the Porter's Corner station they found every man and woman of the village, and to each severally must Elsie tell her story. Her mother never said a word. She only clasped Elsie tighter and tighter, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.
But Joe!—oh, Joe did talking enough for all. The lofty sentiments that flowed from the lips of that virtuous youth were truly refreshing. His own share in last night's adventures had quite slipped his mind. He felt called upon, as "the man of the family," to exhort his sister at length in regard to her manners and morals.
"And now, Elsie Baker," he ended, "I hope you see why girls can't do as boys do. I could have marched for a week and not been tired. I hope you'll remember this the next time you want to tag on when I'm going anywhere."