Sam was doomed to be late in starting on his round that morning. The moment Kitty’s mind grasped the significance of the windfall her tongue was loosed. She talked excitedly, even wildly. The sender of the notes—she wished he had given his name—must be some one whom her father had helped in the old days. Her father was always lending money that never came back. That was why there was none when he died. She hoped she might some day discover the sender, otherwise he could never realize how much more than kind, how truly wonderful, was the thing he had done. For he had given a desperate, persecuted girl her freedom!

“But what are ye going to do, Miss?” Sam ventured at last.

“I’m going to trust you,” she said, with a broken laugh.

“Aye, surely ye can do that. But I hope ye’re no’ for being reckless. Your eyes are shining something terrible.”

She laughed again, and said, “I’m going to London!”

“London!”

“To-night!”

It took Sam some moments to recover. “But what’s taking ye a’ the road to London?”

“I’ve always wanted to go. I’ve always said I would go if I had the money—and now I’ve got it!”

“Ha’ ye friends in London?”

“I’ve no enemies.”

“Oh, but this’ll never do!” he cried. “What’ll happen to ye?”

“Perhaps I’ll have some adventures—I hope so—an’—”

“Adventures, guid God!”

“—And I may make my fortune.”

He threw up his hands muttering, “Oh, dear! the money has turned her head!”

She laid her hand on his arm. “I want you to help me,” she said softly; “that is, if you can do it without getting yourself into trouble. The express stops at Kenny Junction at five minutes to nine, but that’s six miles away, and I must take some luggage—”“Mercy on us!” he exclaimed, “how can ye think it out so quick?”

“I’ve thought it out, and dreamed of it, and cried about it, Sam, oh, a hundred times! Now, can you get some one with a cart, or anything on wheels, to meet me, secretly, outside of the village, at seven o’clock?”

He gave her a long look. “Will ye no’ think over it, Miss?” he asked at last.

“I’m going to-night. Can’t you imagine what life here, with those people, must be?”

“Aye,” he said slowly. “No’ to be endured, I dare say. But—”—he became timid—“I mun ask ye a question, Miss, whether it offends ye or no. It—it’s about young Mr. Hayward. Ye’re no’ running away wi’ him, are ye?”

Once more she laughed. “I had forgotten all about him,” she said truthfully. “What a question to ask!” Then she flushed a little.

He looked abashed as he murmured—

“Young folks do stupid things in haste, and it was for both your sakes I asked the question. Well, well,” he went on, “if your mind’s made up, I suppose I canna change it.”

“And you’ll see about a cart, Sam?” she said eagerly.

“No, I’ll no’ do that!”“What? . . . why?”

“Because when ye leave your uncle’s house, when ye leave Dunford, ye mun leave wi’ your head high and your name fair. Think, Miss! What’ll it mean if ye creep away as if—as if ye was guilty? Why, it would mean that your uncle would be free to make a scandal, aye, and maybe do something worse—”

“But he can prove me guilty as it is! And do you think for a moment he would let me go?”

“Will ye trust me, Miss?”

“Of course, Sam.”

“Ye promise?”

“Yes; if you won’t keep me from going?”

“Then ye’ve promised! Now listen, for we’ll maybe no’ get another chance to arrange it. At seven o’clock to-night ye’ll ha’ your bag and things ready, and ye’ll come down the stair, wi’ neither fear nor trembling, and ye’ll open the door, and ye’ll find me waiting wi’ a cart—”

“But, Sam, Sam—”

“And if your uncle or your aunt asks where ye’re going, answer the truth. But if they try to stop ye, leave them to me. That’s all. If ye canna trust me—”

“Oh, but I will—I do!” she cried, “though I don’t understand—”“Then it’s settled, and I just hope I’m no’ doing a bad thing for ye in helping ye. . . . And now the folk’ll be wondering what’s come over their letters.”

Kitty was not sorry to discover that she had only five minutes left for breakfast. She was all apprehension lest her nerves or her looks should betray her. The slightest appearance of cheerfulness, she felt, would alone be fatal. Fortunately, her uncle had left the table, and was immersed in the morning paper at the fireside. Zeniths had fallen half a crown, and it seemed to him the beginning of the end. His niece’s engagement to Symington twelve hours hence would not take place a moment too soon. He never doubted that the girl would give in.

Miss Corrie, silent, her face a melancholy mask, was beginning to tidy up things.

Not a word was spoken during the girl’s brief stay at the table, but when she rose to go to open the office her uncle spoke from behind the paper.

“Ye’ll mind what I told ye?”

Without response she made for the door. And just then her mind was suddenly confronted with a new difficulty. She was expected to be on duty in the post office until 8 p.m. . . . and yet she must have her things packed and be ready for Sam an hour earlier. At the door she turned, feeling it was now or never. In a voice that shook naturally enough she said—

“I don’t think I can stop in the office till eight to-night. I’m too tired.”

There was a silence full of acute suspense, until he returned grudgingly—

“Very well. Your aunt can take charge after tea.”

She hurried away, her heart thumping with relief. She would have nearly an hour and a half to herself before the hour of departure. Heaven help her to keep her self-control till then. She told herself she did not doubt Sam, and yet . . .

“John,” said Miss Corrie, “do ye think she’ll give in?”

“She darena face the other thing.”

After a pause—“John, what do ye think she wanted the five-pun’ note for?”

“Ye can ask her.”

“She might ha’ got a safer place to hide it than she did—”

“Will ye hold your silly tongue, woman! Zeniths went down two-and-six yesterday. I’m going up to White Farm.”

* * * * *

Eleven hours later Kitty stood in her room ready to go. It was seven o’clock, but she was allowing a minute or two to pass in order to make sure of Sam’s being there. Her courage was at ebb, and she was very pale. Yet she hoped she might escape from the house without being noticed. The best of her worldly goods were contained in a bag and hold-all, part of her luggage of five years ago.

At last she felt she must go or faint. She opened the door softly and picked up her burdens. The bag was heavy. She was taking her father’s manuscripts. Stealthily she stepped across the small landing, and began to descend. But it was impossible to move, laden as she was, on that narrow, wooden stair without making considerable noise. And as she reached the bottom she was confronted by her uncle, who had just shut the shop for the night.

“What’s this?” he demanded with an awful frown, as he blocked the way to the front door.

Kitty’s heart all but failed her. She cleared her throat, wet her lips, and managed to utter the words—

“I’m going to London.”

For a moment the man was stupefied. Then his shout went down the passage leading to shop and post office—“Rachel!—here, quick!”

In desperation Kitty sought to push past. He seized her arm. He was breathing hard; his face was the colour of putty.

Miss Corrie appeared.

“What is it? Oh!” she exclaimed, perceiving the luggage.

“She’s mad,” said her brother thickly, “says she going to London. Liker to jail!”

“How can she go to London or any place?” cried the woman, “unless—did ye check the cash, John?”

“Aunt Rachel!” exclaimed the girl.

“Take her luggage up the stair, Rachel,” Corrie ordered. “We’ll ha’ to do something—”

The door was opened from the outside. Sam stood on the step. Beyond him, at the gate of the little garden, was a pony cart he had borrowed or hired.

“Are ye ready, Miss?” said Sam, cheerfully.

Corrie strode to the door, his face working with passion.

“What the — do ye mean?” he demanded threateningly.

“Miss Carstairs,” said Sam, without flinching, “is for London, and it’s my pleasure to drive her to the junction.”“He’s mad, too,” screamed Miss Corrie. “Shut the door in his face.”

Swiftly Sam stepped inside, and closed the door,

“Mr. Corrie,” he said quietly, “I would advise ye no’ to interfere.” To Kitty—“I’ll take your luggage, Miss.”

Corrie, beside himself, raised his fist.

“Wait,” said the other, still calmly. “The folk in Dunford are maybe dull, but I could tell them a thing, Mr. Corrie, that would make them spit on ye in the street, and maybe pull your house and shop about your ears. . . . Come, Miss.”

“Move a step, and I send for the policeman,” roared Corrie.

“In which case,” retorted the postman, “I’ll just ha’ to give ye in charge. For what, I ask ye, was ye doin’ up the ladder yesterday, about 12.30 p.m.?”

“By God, postman. I’ll—”

“I’m askin’ ye a straight question. I was comin’ down the hill at the time, but I’ve guid sight still, and what’s more I had a witness. Ye can say ye was paying attention to yer ivy—an’ truth it needs it!—but in that case, I would ask ye if the ivy was growing inside o’ this young lady’s bedroom. . . . Come, Miss. He’ll no’ touch ye.” And opening the door, and then gently pushing Corrie out of the way, he took possession of the bag and hold-all.

And he and the girl passed out without hindrance.

When they had gone the woman turned a ghastly face on her brother.

“John, ye mun tell me what he meant about the ladder.”

As if he had not heard, Corrie staggered out of the house and took the road to White Farm.

Sam put his charge into the express with many injunctions and a package of sweets. Kitty had scarcely spoken during the drive, and now speech failed her altogether. She could only cling to his rough hand, and nod her promises to send her address, when she found one, and let him know if ever she required help. He was a lonely man, and she had given him a new and great interest in life.

They were too much engrossed at the last minute to notice a high-wheeled gig dash up to the station gate and deposit a passenger who entered the train lower down just as it was starting.

There were three other passengers in the compartment, all more or less inclined to doze. Though deadly tired, Kitty had no inclination for sleep. Nor could she give a thought to the future. Not so soon could her mind and nerves recover from the strain and shock of the last two days.

After Carlisle, however, she found herself alone, and the solitude began to have a soothing effect. She lay back in her corner and closed her eyes. The great train—the dear, kind monster she had so often watched and longed to travel on—thundered out its miles southward, and at two in the morning slumber was not far from the exhausted girl.

Kitty gave a little sigh of content—and opened her eyes.

The door of the compartment slid back. Alec Symington entered.