citement, were healthy and young, she sank into a deep sleep, without
having decided at all what she should do.

At last she woke from a terrible dream, in which the hand of her pursuer
was upon her, and her preserver was in the dark distance. With that
strange insistence which torments the victim of such dreams, she was
obliged to lie still and imagine it out, again and again, until the face
and voice of the young man grew very real in the darkness, and she longed
inexpressibly for the comfort of his presence once more.

At length she shook off these pursuing thoughts and deliberately roused
herself to plan her future.

The first necessity, she decided, was to change her appearance so far as
possible, so that if news of her escape, with full description, had been
telegraphed, she might evade notice. To that end, she arose in the early
dawning of a gray and misty morning, and arranged her hair as she had
never worn it before, in two braids and wound closely about her head. It
was neat, and appropriate to the vocation which she had decided upon, and
it made more difference in her appearance than any other thing she could
have done. All the soft, fluffy fulness of rippling hair that had framed
her face was drawn close to her head, and the smooth bands gave her the
simplicity and severity of a saint in some old picture. She pinned up her
gown until it did not show below the long black coat, and folded a white
linen handkerchief about her throat over the delicate lace and garniture
of the modish waist. Then she looked dubiously at the hat.

With a girl's instinct, her first thought was for her borrowed plumage. A
fine mist was slanting down and had fretted the window-pane until there
was nothing visible but dull gray shadows of a world that flew
monotonously by. With sudden remembrance, she opened the suit-case and
took out the folded black hat, shook it into shape, and put it on. It was
mannish, of course, but girls often wore such hats.

As she surveyed herself in the long mirror o