To write and wait a reply from Joan was simply impossible.

He must start the very next morning.

Alas, he had no wings either real or symbolic, and must foot it! It would take him days to reach Yorkshire, on the northern border of which she lived, but the idea of such a journey, with such a goal before him, not to mention absolute release from books and boys, was entrancing.

To set out free, to walk on and on for days, not knowing what next would appear at any turn of the road--it was like reading a story that came to life as you read it! And then in the last chapter of it to arrive at the loveliest lady in the world, the same whose form and face mingled with his every day-dream--it was a chain of gold with a sapphire at the end of it--a flowery path to the gate of heaven! That night he took his leave of the family, to start early in the morning.

The father and mother were plainly sorry; the children looked grave, and one of them cried.