He was going, please God, to build up a workmanlike monument to the memory of his father.
Ten o'clock struck, and uninterested in his book, he would have gone to bed but for the growing feeling that he was not his own master, that he might be required at any moment.

The feeling became so strong that finally he got up and went into the hall.

He couldn't wait any longer.
He must go out, slip into the garden of the Ludlow house and search the windows for a sight of Joan.
He unbolted the front door, gave a little gasp and found himself face to face with the girl who was in his thoughts.
There was a ripple of excited laughter; a bag was thrust into his hand, and like a bird escaped from a cage, Joan darted past him into the hall.
"I've done it," she cried, "I've done it!" And she broke into a dance.
Martin shut the door, put the bulging suit-case on a chair and watched the girl as she whirled about the hall, as graceful as a water sprite, with eyes alight with mischief and animation.

The sight of her was so bewitching, the fact that she had come to him for help so good, that his curiosity to know what it was that she had done fell away.
Suddenly she came to a breathless stop and caught hold of his arm.
"Bolt the door, Marty," she said, "quickly, quickly! They may send after me when they find I've got away.

I'll never go back, never, never!" All the spirit of romance in the boy's nature flamed.