So she talked soberly to Nan, and tried to impress upon her mind the difference between liberty and license, telling several tales to enforce her lecture.

She had not decided how to punish Nan, but one of these stories suggested a way, and as Mrs.Jo liked odd penalties, she tried it.
"All children run away," pleaded Nan, as if it was as natural and necessary a thing as measles or hooping cough.
"Not all, and some who do run away don't get found again," answered Mrs.
Jo.
"Didn't you do it yourself ?" asked Nan, whose keen little eyes saw some traces of a kindred spirit in the serious lady who was sewing so morally before her.
Mrs.Jo laughed, and owned that she did.
"Tell about it," demanded Nan, feeling that she was getting the upper hand in the discussion.
Mrs.Jo saw that, and sobered down at once, saying, with a remorseful shake of the head, "I did it a good many times, and led my poor mother rather a hard life with my pranks, till she cured me." "How ?" and Nan sat up with a face full of interest.
"I had a new pair of shoes once, and wanted to show them; so, though I was told not to leave the garden, I ran away and was wandering about all day.

It was in the city, and why I wasn't killed I don't know.

Such a time as I had.

I frolicked in the park with dogs, sailed boats in the Back Bay with strange boys, dined with a little Irish beggar-girl on salt fish and potatoes, and was found at last fast asleep on a door-step with my arms round a great dog.