Mother seemed to avoid talking of Ellen. I knew it was because she could not bear to blame her sister, and yet she could not, in justice, exonerate her; but with father I discussed the matter freely. He blamed Aunt Martha's severity, and had little excuse to make for her:
"She was not only unsympathetic, and harsh with the child," he said, "but, in all save blows, she was cruel. She overworked her, and tried hard to break her spirit. Many a child would have been driven to lying, but Ellen was honest through all, if she was at times defiant and disrespectful. I do not blame her for running away; it is what any high spirited lad would have done, long ago."
"Yes, father," I answered, "but Ellen, being a girl, should have been more submissive to authority, more meek it seems to me. Think what fearful risks she took in running away."
"The very fact that a woman must take such grave risks in pursuing any course of action not countenanced by her lawful protectors, makes her condition the more pitiable under oppression. Ellen was completely in your aunt's power; no relief was possible to her, save from some act of desperation such as the one she was guilty of."
"Could she not have found refuge somewhere in the neighborhood?"
"No one would have taken her in. It would not do to encourage the child in disrespect and disobedience."
"What do you surmise has been her fate, father?" with an effort to speak calmly.
"I think it most likely she has been carried off by some band of roving Indians. She doubtless tried to find her way back to Baltimore, lost her way, and was picked up by the savages. She, I surmise, watched the chance to turn the horse loose, that he might find his way home."
"They would hardly kill her."
"No; more likely they have taken her to their village, and are training her for a chief's squaw."