Her anger at her aunt, and the utter disappointment and homesickness of her Boston visit, had swept away, for a few moments, all her power of reasoning.

To get home, to see her mother,--to hide her head on her shoulder and cry,--this was the one thought that had turned itself over and over in her mind, on that quick ride from Beacon Street, and in that hour spent in the dark corner of the depot.

Here she was, running like a thief from her uncle's house, without a word of good-by or thanks for his hospitality, with no message to tell him where she had gone but that note, hastily written in the first flush of her hurt and angry feelings.

And the hurrying train was whirling her over hill and valley faster and farther.

To go back was impossible, go on she must.