CHAPTER VIII.

A THIRD RUNNING AWAY.

"Look here, little girl," said Jack, stopping 'Tilda Jane as she was coming out of the dining-room the next morning, "I've had a telegram from your friend in Ciscasset."

"An' what does he say?" she asked, breathlessly.

"I'll read it," and he drew a paper from his pocket. "Never heard of girl. Don't want her. Hobart Dillson."

'Tilda Jane looked crestfallen, but did not flinch in face of the new difficulty. "He's a cranky ole man. He'll be all right when I talk to him."

"Well, you're a queer fish," muttered her friend, as by way of hiding her chagrin she went quickly up-stairs. "We can't do anything with you till Robinson gets back, and tells us where he picked you up."

The assistant inspector met her in the hall above. "Have you made up your mind to talk yet?" he asked, austerely.

'Tilda Jane shook her head.

"I've been amusing myself by telegraphing along the line," he said, in the same tone of voice. "None of the stations know anything about you, and the agent at McAdam has started off in the woods for his holidays. The conductor that brought you is laid up from an accident to his train, so you've got to speak for yourself; and do you know what I've made up my mind to do?"

"No, sir," she said, steadily.

"By to-night if you won't tell me where you come from, I'm going to take that dog away from you."

Her face turned a sickly yellow, but she did not quail. "You wouldn't shoot him, would you?"

"No, I won't shoot him," he said, deliberately. "I guess I'd give him to some nice little girl who wouldn't tell lies."

'Tilda Jane's head sank on her breast. "Gimme till to-morrow morning, sir. I'd like to think it over."

"I'll see about it," he said, with a curious glance at her; then he went away.

'Tilda Jane knew that he would give her till the morning. She would not be troubled by him all day. She would have time to think. The worst difficulty in her experience confronted her. She would lose her dog in any case. To speak was to be sent back to the asylum, to remain silent was to let her Gippie become the cherished darling of some other girl, and in mute agony she caressed the smooth brown head, and put her hand before the almost sightless eyes as if she would hide from them even a suspicion of coming danger.

Mr. Jack had just stepped on one of the out-going trains. She could not appeal to him, and the table-girls, since they had found that she was a story-teller, slighted her in a most marked way.

She wandered down-stairs and out-of-doors. All day she loitered about the station platform watching the trains come in,--deliberate freight-trains, with their loads of merchandise, all to be examined by the busy customs officials, and rushing express trains, with their hundreds of hungry passengers who swept in crowds into the spacious dining-room.

She saw her companions in captivity borne away. The fashionable lady got on a train that was entering Canada, and the dismal boy and girl followed her. The little German Jew, who had been roaming about the hotel like a restless ghost, always with his hat on and a bundle in his hand as if he wished to impress all beholders with the fact that he was only tarrying for a short time, had, on the receipt of a telegram informing the inspectors that he had merely forgotten his papers, become a happy maniac. He ran to and fro, he collected his bundles, dropped them, to kiss the hand of a table-girl who gave him some cakes for his lunch, and had to be restrained by main force from boarding every train that pulled up at the station.

Fortunate travellers and unfortunate orphan! She could not get on one of the trains and be borne away. She was watched; she felt it, for she had now a perfect comprehension of the system of espionage established over unsuspecting travellers. The rich and well-dressed ones were passed by unless they were wearing sealskin wraps, the poor and penniless must give an account of themselves. So there was no escape for her by train. She must take to the road.

She had better go lie down and try to sleep, she reflected with a shudder, as she had now before her the prospect of another night in the woods. As soon as it got dark, she must try to slip away from the hotel.

At six o'clock she had had her nap and was in her favourite spot on her knees by her open window. Night was approaching, and she felt neither sorry, nor frightened, nor apprehensive. The sun was going down, and she was so completely wrapped in deep and silent content that she could neither speak nor think. She did not know that she was an ardent lover of nature--that her whole soul was at the present moment so filled with the glory of the winter evening that she had no room for her own troubles.

The clanging supper-bell disturbed her, and, with a sigh and a look of longing farewell at the sky, she closed the window and made her way to the dining-room.

After supper she returned to her post, and, as she could not now see the glorious sky and the snowy fields, she let her attention fall upon the trains below that had begun to have a strange fascination for her. She had lost all fear of them by this time, and had even begun to notice that there were differences in them just as there were differences in people. Some were big and bulky, others were quick and dashing. Some had hoarse voices, some clear ones. The Canadian engines coming in shrieked in one tone, the American ones, passing them from the other direction, replied in another.

Hour after hour went by, and with the time her sense of dreamy contentment faded away. It gave her but little dismay to look out into the starlit night and fancy herself alone in snowy solitudes, but it gave her considerable dismay to look down below, and find that the hotel was neither getting dark nor perfectly quiet, as she fancied all well-regulated houses did at night. She had forgotten that they could not sleep here, at least everybody could not. Trains were coming and going all the time, and with this constant supervision below, how could she evade detection?

"Number seventeen is an hour late and getting later every minute," she heard some one call after a time; "bad snow-drifts up north."

"Guess I'll take a wink of sleep," a tired voice responded, "there'll be nothing but freights for a spell," and then followed comparative silence.

Footsteps were only occasionally heard, fewer lights flashed in the distance, and it was only at much longer intervals that passing trains shook the house. There was a lull in the constant noises, and now was the time for action. She rose stealthily, and took her dog in her arms--a pathetic child figure no longer, but a wary, stealthy little elf endeavouring to escape from danger threatened by these larger and more powerful human beings.

Her sleeping-room was a tiny chamber opening out of one occupied by two of the dining-room girls. She was not afraid of their waking. She had heard them say as they undressed that they had to get up at half-past four to iron table-cloths and napkins, and there was not an instant's interruption of their heavy, dreamless slumber as she stole noiselessly by them.

Now for the staircase. She paused anxiously at the top, and looked down. There was no one in sight, and holding her breath, and tiptoeing cautiously, she stole down step by step.

At last she was at the bottom of both flights of stairs. So far so good, and she laid her hand on the knob of the front door that was never locked. But stop, let her pause--there were sounds outside.

Some one out there hesitated, halted, and remarked to some other person behind, "Will you come in and have a bite of something to eat?"

'Tilda Jane scarcely dared to breathe, and, gazing down the hall behind her, shook in her substantial shoes. She could see the office at the end of the hall, and the sleepy clerk napping at his desk. If she retreated toward him, he might wake up and discover her, and if the men entered she could not possibly avoid being caught by them.

In intense anxiety she awaited results. There were only a few seconds of uncertainty, then her heart gave a bound of thankfulness. The footsteps had passed on, and only waiting till they died away, she opened the door and glided through.

Now she was on the brightly lighted platform at the mercy of any passer-by, or any wakeful person who might be at one of the hotel windows. She made one swift rush across it, one leap over the railway tracks, and with a stifled exclamation of thankfulness found herself on the village road.

Like a dark, diminutive ghost she sped up the hill past the silent houses. Now she was comparatively safe, yet which way should she go? She was completely puzzled, yet she had a vague idea that there were great forests surrounding Vanceboro, for she had heard the men at the hotel talk of fishing and shooting.

Trembling in every limb from excitement, and pressing her precious bundle closely to her, she took a road to the left. She must not go to the right, for across the river was Canada, and if she got into that foreign country again, she would have fresh difficulties in returning to her own native one. She would press on through the village, take to the woods, and trust to luck to find some house where she could ask the way to Ciscasset.

There was a moon to-night, an old, pale moon, and it cast a tremulous light over the soft, white fields sloping down to the Sainte-Croix River, the sleeping village, and the brightly lighted station yard in the hollow. She turned around, took one farewell glance at the habitations of men, and plunged into the winding road leading into the heart of the forest.

Hour after hour she plodded on. This reminded her of her walk with Ruth Ann two evenings before, only here there was more light, the snow was deeper, and the trees were not as high as those on the way to the Moss Glen station. She hoped with a shiver that she should meet no wild beasts. Hark! What was that crashing through the alder bushes? She stopped short, clasped her dog to her breast, and looked about for some means of defence. Nothing offered but a dry tree branch, and she was just bending over to seize it when there rushed by her, so quickly that she had no time to be afraid, an object that caused a faint smile of pleasure to come to her pale lips.

This was a large deerhound running along with his nose to the snow, and he paid no more attention to her than if she had been one of the stumps by the side of the road.

"Here, doggie, doggie!" she called, wistfully, but he did not return, and, startled by the sound of her voice in the intense stillness, she hastily resumed her way.

How solemn the moon was, staring down at her with that section of a face on which she fancied she saw an ear, the corner of a mouth, and one terrible, glistening eye. "Little girl, where are you going? Are you doing right? Are you not a naughty little girl?"

"I can't think about it now," she said, desperately. "When I git settled down I'll square things up. Anyway, I'm not bad for the fun of it. Law me, ain't this road long! Here, Gippie, I guess you might walk a few steps. Keep in my tracks an' I'll not let anythin' hurt you. If a bear comes, he'll eat me first. It'll do you good to stretch your legs a mite."

Away back in the hotel Mr. Jack was just getting home. "We can let our deaf and dumb kid go in the morning," he said to his assistant, who got on the train as he left it. "The waitress at McAdam was just inquiring about her--says she's U. S. all right. Came from Moss Glen station, didn't know Ciscasset when she got to it, and was carried on. Agent forgot to speak to Robinson about her, and the waitress wanted to know if she got through all right."

"U. S.," grumbled the assistant inspector, pausing with his foot on the steps of the baggage-car, "why didn't she say so?"

"Was frightened--I guess she'd run away--a case of innocence abroad."

"Well, we can't hold her if she isn't an immigrant," said Blakeman, with relief. "Let her go. They've got a poorhouse in Ciscasset, I suppose."

"She'll go in no poorhouse," said Mr. Jack, with a chuckle. "She's too smart."

If he could have seen at that moment the weary little figure toiling along the forest road, he would have uttered the appreciative adjective with even more energy. Tired, hungry, occasionally stooping to lift a handful of snow to her lips, 'Tilda Jane plodded on. Her thin figure was bent from fatigue. She had again picked up the wailing dog, and had slung him on her back in the shawl, yet there was not the slightest indication of faltering in her aspect. There were no clearings in the woods, no promise of settlement, yet her face was ever toward the promised land of Ciscasset, and her back to the place of captivity in Vanceboro.