CHAPTER XLV.
"OH, GENTLE WIND THAT BLOWETH SOUTH."
But if this girl, partly through her great yearning love, and partly through the overshadowing of her past sufferings, was haunted by a mysterious dread, that was not the prevailing feeling within this small household which was now pulling itself together for a flight to the south. Even she caught something of the brisk and cheerful spirit awakened by all the bustle of departure; and when her father, who had come to London Bridge station to see the whole of them off, noticed the businesslike fashion in which she ordered everybody about, so that the invalid should have his smallest comforts attended to, he could not help saying, with a laugh—
"Well, Violet, this is better than starting for America all by yourself, isn't it? But I don't think you would have been much put out by that either."
A smart young man came up, and was for entering the carriage.
"I beg your pardon," said she, respectfully but firmly. "This carriage is reserved."
The young man looked at both windows.
"I don't see that it is," he retorted coolly.
He took hold of the handle of the door, when she immediately rose and stood before him, an awful politeness and decorum on her face, but the fire of Brünhilde the warrior maiden in her eyes.