All unconscious of Cousin Penelope’s musings, Caroline stretched herself in the fresh cool bed, in her pretty room. She thought of the party next day, and all the lovely days, brimful of music and happiness, that were to follow. For Jackie had promised that she should stay there undisturbed at The Chimnies, until Aunt Edie came at the end of summer.

How kind Jackie was, and how good, and how brave! She wasn’t afraid of cows, or Cousin Penelope, or boys, or the dark. Caroline, for instance, would have been frightened to death to go the three miles in the black night down into the Meadows. But Jackie had just whistled and walked away, as unconcerned as anything. No, there was no one in the world so good or so brave as Jackie. With that worshiping thought uppermost in her mind, Caroline fell asleep, as safe and sheltered as care and love could make her.

Meantime the brave Jackie, with her heart in her throat, was making the best of her way through the vast blackness of the onion fields, back to the Conway farm.

The first of the walk wasn’t so bad. On Longmeadow Street she met people, by ones and twos and threes, on their way to prayer meeting or to the Post Office. She could see, too, the light from house windows that streamed across the broad, well-tended lawns. She enjoyed the luxury of pitying herself, all alone in the dark, with no one to care, while other children, in those lighted houses, were being tucked up in bed.

But after she left the last houses of the village, Jacqueline stopped enjoying the drama of the situation which she had chosen. The fields stretched round her endlessly. The sky was black as despair, and all stuck with stars that were sharp as screams of rage. The edges of the sky were tucked in behind the coal black mountains, from which the Indians in old days used to swoop down upon the settlement.

Jacqueline caught her breath, and looked hurriedly over her shoulder. Of course there were no Indians nowadays. They couldn’t be lurking that moment in the fields. The onions grew too low to hide an ambuscade. It was only the wind that made their tops rustle in a queer way that pumped the blood out of her heart and set it throbbing against her ear-drums.

No one could hide in the onion fields, she knew. But in the little gullies where the brooks flowed that drained the fields—that was a different matter. Every time she drew near a culvert, she ran as fast as she could upon her tired legs, through the heavy dust, until the danger point was passed. Even if there weren’t any Indians, there were Polish field-hands. Good, honest men, most of them, Aunt Martha maintained. But some of them were worthless and drunken. There was a half-witted Kaplinsky boy, too, who sometimes chased younger children, with horrid, half-articulate threats.

Jacqueline sheered into the middle of the dark gray road to avoid the patch of inky shadow that a solitary elm tree threw halfway across it. She wasn’t crying, as Caroline would have cried. Jacqueline cried, as you may have discovered, only when she was angry. Now her breath came thick and strangling, and her legs felt weak, and there were hot prickles of sweat on her temples, and cold prickles on the back of her neck. But she didn’t cry!

Some one was coming along the road behind her. No mistake! She could hear voices—men’s voices. On instinct she did what a moment before she couldn’t have been hired to do. She scuttled off the road and hid in the damp bed of the brook that bounded the Whitcomb acres. There she crouched with her head on her knees, until she heard steps shuffle along the culvert. She peeped up fearfully. Three figures of men were silhouetted against the sky. They paused on the side of the culvert (fortunately!) that was farthest from her, and spat into the brook, and spoke to one another in a foreign tongue, and laughed—ogreishly, as it seemed to Jacqueline—and then walked on.

They had actually gone. She could breathe again. But she wouldn’t dare walk on for hours and hours. They might loiter. She might overtake them.

For what seemed to her half the night, she crouched in the clammy bed of the brook. Oh, she thought to herself in those long, dreary minutes, what a silly she had been! Why hadn’t she stepped right up and told Cousin Penelope who she was? Well, she couldn’t, because she had gone and promised Caroline—a crazy promise—she hated herself because she had made it—she knew she was going to hate herself when she made it—just the same a promise was a promise, and you kept it, even though the sky fell.

But why had she ever promised? It would be dreadful at the farm now—but there wasn’t anywhere else to go. Perhaps Aunt Martha would send her to an Institution. She didn’t think any longer that an Institution would be fun. She thought of the workhouse boys in “Oliver Twist,” who never had enough to eat—and she hadn’t eaten herself now for ages and ages. She knew what hunger was! Oh, she didn’t want to go to an Institution—and she didn’t want to go to the farm—and she couldn’t go to the Gildersleeves’, because she had promised Caroline! Perhaps she’d better stay right there in the ditch and die—and then wouldn’t everybody be sorry!

Just then she heard something rustling near her. She didn’t stop to find out whether it was a harmless field mouse, or a snake, equally harmless, though perhaps less attractive. She didn’t stop for anything. She scrambled out of that ditch and started on a sore-footed run for the Conway farm. Aunt Martha—Neil—anything rather than the loneliness of the ditch upon a pitiless, black, Pole-infested night!

She was stumbling along the road, as she felt that she had been stumbling for a lifetime, panting and coughing as the dust that she kicked up got into her nose, when she heard from before her the chug and chatter of a laboring Ford. Nearer and clearer, she caught the gleam of headlights that lit up a fan-shaped space of dust and dark green onion tops.

For a second she halted in her tracks. Then she reflected that people in cars can be as undesirable as people on foot, and once more she plunged off the road. This time she found no friendly ditch to hide her. She just plumped down flat among the onion tops and lay gasping.

The Ford trundled past the spot where she had left the road—stopped—began to back. Jacqueline “froze,” like a scared little animal. Oh, why couldn’t she wake up, and find that this was just a horrible nightmare?

Some one leaned out of the Ford.

“Jackie!” a voice called clearly and firmly. “Is that you? Jackie!”

Jacqueline found her feet, though a second before she would have vowed she hadn’t enough strength left ever to stand again. She flew, stiff-legged, through the crumbly dust and the strong-smelling onion tops, into the road. She cast herself upon the running board, she flung herself into the seat of the car, and hung about the neck of the woman at the steering wheel.

“Oh, Aunt Martha!” she cried. “Aunt Martha!”

And Martha Conway, if you’ll believe it, grabbed that bad Jacqueline and hugged her just as tight as if she were clean and sweet, instead of the dirtiest, sweatiest, tiredest ragamuffin that ever crawled penitently out of an onion bed.