It was a glorious morning. The sun was not up yet, so the air was cool—even crisp; and Phoebe, making her way quietly through the rear gate and along that road used by the tradesmen, had to slip on her coat. She halted a moment under some trees that stood, occupying a whole lot, between the Blair house and the railroad station. And as she settled her coat, the birds called down at her. They were just awaking!

Phoebe had no thought of taking a train for New York. In the first place, she had no money, having spent her last penny at the theatre; in the second place, the station-agent knew her, and would report her departure. She did not even go near the station. What she did was to take her direction from it down the long macadam road that led, straight and smooth, beside the double line of rails.

That way lay New York! She would walk till an automobile came by. Then she would ride as far as possible, perhaps walk some more, sleep at pleasant farm-houses along the route, take up her journey the following morning, and thus, by easy stages, reach the loved city and Sally.

The whole plan seemed so feasible that as she turned into the road at a point well south of the station, she wondered why she had never thought of it before. And it was so jolly, trotting along like this! She felt free, and strong, and happy. And very brave.

“Mother would want me to leave there,” she told herself. “She never liked any of them.”

The sun came up. The birds began their morning songs. Phoebe took off her coat, then her hat. When she spied an automobile rushing toward her from the distance, she went aside to crouch in the deep, weed-grown ditch that stretched between the wagon road and the track, covered her face with her coat, stayed motionless for a few minutes—then went merrily on.

It was the first eluding of a car bound town-ward that made her think how exciting this adventure of hers was. And with that thought came another—a wonderful one! It made her heart beat fast. She fairly skipped. Tears of joy sprang to her eyes. She would be a moving-picture actress! And act with William S. Hart!

Why had she never thought of leaving before—to carry out the plan?

She was so happy over her determination that she all but allowed herself to be seen by an automobile that, with milk-cans rocking and clanking, shot past on its way out of town. She was not ready yet to ask for a ride. That would come later, when a village to the south was at her back, and the chances of her being recognized had lessened. Just now, with her new idea in mind, she felt so happy and light-footed that she needed no rides. She knew she could go on walking all day!

But there was something she had forgotten: breakfast. Very soon she remembered it—at about the time she was accustomed to having it. And as she trotted along she thought of her cereal and cream, her three-minute egg, and the little stack of crisp, hot buttered toast that Sophie always brought with the egg.

Phoebe looked on either hand for houses. She had passed quite a few, but they were set so far back from the highway that she had not feared being seen from them. But if she was to have even a bite of breakfast, would it not be necessary to go boldly up to one, and ring the bell, and ask for food?

“No,” said Phoebe, aloud. “They’d telephone straight into town. I’ll just have to stand it till I get farther.”

Her trot changed to a trudge. The summer sun climbed the sky, and the coolness went out of the air. She grew thirsty, and forgot her hunger in her desire for water. What made things harder was the fact that automobiles or wagons were frequent now, and she had to be on the lookout constantly, and was constantly compelled to forsake the road for the deep ditch while travellers went by.

Then there were the trains—both freight and passenger. She hid from them. From the north they might carry people who would know that she was missing; from the south they would take news of a lone little girl walking toward New York.

Toward noon she went aside into a clump of trees to rest. Here she found water—a shallow, unshaded pool of it. But it was not the kind she had always been accustomed to, cold and limpid and clean; it was warm, and a thin scum floated upon its surface. Also, there were long-legged, nervous insects going about upon it jerkily. She had to drive them away before she could drink.

Once she had left the New York road, somehow she did not want to return to it. She was afraid of discovery. As noon came and passed, there were more automobiles and wagons to elude, and even more trains. Once she saw a man on foot, with a dog at his heels. She remembered a moving-picture she had once seen in which dogs had been used to find a murderer. She wondered if the man and the dog would not soon be hunting for her!

At that she started off once more, going parallel to track and road, but keeping well out of sight from both. This meant hard work, for there was cultivated land to cross, there were fences to climb, and whenever a house loomed up ahead, it was necessary for Phoebe to make what to her was a heart-breaking detour.

By the middle of the afternoon she was exhausted. Ahead of her, in a field, she saw a hay-stack. She was famished, and more thirsty than ever. But her knees were failing her. Above all things she needed rest. She crossed the field, sought the shady side of the stack, gathered together a little loose hay with which to make a bed, and dropped upon it, her hat screening her face.

She awoke with a start, knowing she was not alone, and with a cry of fear scrambled to her feet. A man was beside her—a young man with a very brown face, and dark eyes that twinkled. He had curly black hair, and wore a black slouch hat.

“Hullo,” said the man, grinning.

“Goo-good-afternoon,” returned Phoebe, catching up her hat as she backed away. She did not like the looks of the man. He made her think of gypsies.

“What you doin’ out here?” went on the stranger. He looked her over impudently.

Phoebe knew that she must give this man a satisfactory answer. And she felt, she scarcely knew why, that she must not let him think she was alone. “My father has just gone over to that house,” she answered, trying to keep her voice even. “I’m very hungry, and my father has gone to get me something to eat.”

“Is that so!” The man considered her explanation, and even turned about to look toward the house she had indicated. “Well, how does it happen your father and you are hangin’ around this hay-field?” he persisted.

“Well,”—Phoebe saw that she had partly convinced him—“my father’s automobile broke down, over there on the road. But I had to have something to eat before he fixed it, so he’s going to ask for food over there, and for gasoline.”

“Say!” resumed the young man, dropping his voice confidentially; “you stay here, and I’ll go over and meet your father, and help him carry the things—eh?”

“All right,” agreed Phoebe, heartily. (Anything to get rid of the stranger!) “And tell my father please to bring plenty of water.” (This was a master stroke!)

“I’ll bring it. Now, you set down, and I’ll be back with water and grub in no time.” He gave her a final look, then started off quickly.

It was plain that he only half believed her. He was going to learn for himself whether or not her father was at the farm-house. He was counting on her hunger and thirst to hold her there in the strip of shade while he was gone. Her instinct told her that.

It told her more. She knew she must get away. But not at once. The shady side of the stack did not face toward the farm-house. Soon the man, reaching the fence that skirted the yard, would be out of sight of Phoebe were she to remain in the shade, for a corner of the hay would hide her. She waited.

Presently, peering around that corner, she saw the man climb the fence. As he stepped on the farther side, she stood boldly in sight. He looked around toward her, and she swung her hat at him!

He waved back, and turned away.

Then she ran—straight in the opposite direction, and as hard as she could go. Terror gave her strength, terror of she knew not what. She forgot hunger and thirst and weariness: she thought only of putting distance between herself and that man.

Her way led her back to the road. Even as she set foot upon it, an automobile turned into it from a side lane that ran at right angles to road and track. The machine was a small, open car, driven by an elderly man. Phoebe went to the middle of the road and held up her hand.

“He isn’t from town,” she argued. “Nobody’s told him about me.”

The elderly man stopped. “Want a ride?” he called down cheerily.

“Would you mind?” inquired Phoebe. “You see I want to go to town, because my aunt, who’s camping over here,”—she waved a hand in the direction of the hay-stack—“feels sort of sick, and wants some medicine.”

“Climb in,” was the hearty invitation.

Phoebe climbed. Then, calling upon her imagination, and aided by moving-picture plots she could recall, she told the elderly man all about herself and her aunt, and how they came to be camping out behind a hay-stack in a farmer’s field. And so real was her story, and so genuine seemed her concern for her aunt, that the elderly man was hugely interested, and gave Phoebe some plums out of his coat pocket.

As they spun along, Phoebe fell to wondering what she would do when they arrived in town. For she feared the man would take her directly to a drug-store, and there she would have to confess that she had no money. Of course she could say that, somehow, she had lost it. But suppose the man not only bought the medicine she would have to ask for, but insisted on carrying her back to a point on the road nearest that stack!

Worse! Suppose as they entered the little town that an officer of the law hailed them, to ask if Phoebe was not the little girl who had run away that morning! And suppose——

But to Phoebe’s intense relief none of the several possibilities she feared came to pass. For the reason that the man, when he reached the outskirts of the town, came to a stop and explained that he would have to turn aside for a mile or so, and would not be able to take Phoebe all the way into town.

“Just the same,” he added, “if you’ll be at this spot an hour from now, I’ll pick you up as I start home.”

“Oh, thank you!” exclaimed Phoebe, grateful. But she was not thanking him for his offer. Her gratitude was for the ride and for the almost miraculous escape from being carried into town. She climbed down, waved a good-bye, and watched the little open car whirl away in a cloud of dust down a long dirt road that led under a small bridge.

That bridge gave her an idea. She had the plums, and she was too tired to go farther until she had more rest and sleep. “I’ll hide,” she determined, “and I’ll eat two of the plums, and then I’ll sleep. And early tomorrow morning, I’ll go round this town before anybody’s up.”

At one end of the bridge, and under it, where the timbers met the earth, there was a little scooped-out place, as if some one no larger than Phoebe had been there before her and hollowed a resting place for her. She crawled into it, lay on one side with her face toward the macadam road, ate all of the plums, broke the pits by using two stones that were at hand, ate the pits and liked them, then covered herself with her coat, laid her head on her hat, and slept.

First, however, she said her prayers. She remembered that she had told lies that afternoon. “I had to tell them,” she pleaded. None the less, they were lies, and she dared not sleep with them on her conscience.

When she awoke, it was night, and she was cold. What awoke her was a train, plunging past her overhead, with shrieks of its whistle, a roar of wheels, and a clanking as of many chains.

She smiled to herself in the dark. What would the people on the train say if they knew that beneath them, as they tore along, was a little girl who was running away? “Some day, when I’m a famous actress,” she promised herself, “I’ll write all about this to the newspapers. And then the people in the train will remember, and be awfully interested.”

She was strangely unafraid. For one reason, she felt so secure. In the first place, she must be many miles from home. They would not think of searching for her at such a distance. If they did, who in the world would ever dream (if he were to pass that bridge) that she was curled up snugly under one end of it? “I couldn’t have found a better place,” she declared, pleased with her own judgment. “Tomorrow night I’ll hunt another bridge just like this.”

She tucked her coat more carefully about her, then composed herself for more sleep. She heard little noises about her, as if a rabbit were out, or a badger. She felt that rabbits and badgers would add a touch to her story—that story she would write about herself when she was famous. She began to word it now. The account merged into something her father was saying. It was: “She hasn’t gone past here. I feel sure of that. Let’s take our time——”