Mrs. Bett was working contentedly beside her, and now and then humming an air of that music of the night before.  The sun surged through the kitchen door and east window, a returned oriole swung and fluted on the elm above the gable.  Wagons clattered by over the rattling wooden block pavement.

“Ain’t it nice with nobody home?” Mrs. Bett remarked at intervals, like the burden of a comic song.

“Hush, mother,” Lulu said, troubled, her ethical refinements conflicting with her honesty.

“Speak the truth and shame the devil,” Mrs. Bett contended.

When dinner was ready at noon, Di did not appear.  A little earlier Lulu had heard her moving about her room, and she served her in expectation that she would join them.

“Di must be having the ‘tantrim’ this time,” she thought, and for a time said nothing.  But at length she did say:  “Why doesn’t Di come?  I’d better put her plate in the oven.”

Rising to do so, she was arrested by her mother.  Mrs. Bett was eating a baked potato, holding her fork close to the tines, and presenting a profile of passionate absorption.

“Why, Di went off,” she said.

“Went off!”

“Down the walk.  Down the sidewalk.”

“She must have gone to Jenny’s,” said Lulu.  “I wish she wouldn’t do that without telling me.”

Monona laughed out and shook her straight hair.  “She’ll catch it!” she cried in sisterly enjoyment.

It was when Lulu had come back from the kitchen and was seated at the table that Mrs. Bett observed: 

“I didn’t think Inie’d want her to take her nice new satchel.”

“Her satchel?”

“Yes.  Inie wouldn’t take it north herself, but Di had it.”

“Mother,” said Lulu, “when Di went away just now, was she carrying a satchel?”

“Didn’t I just tell you?” Mrs. Bett demanded, aggrieved.  “I said I didn’t think Inie—­”

“Mother!  Which way did she go?”

Monona pointed with her spoon.  “She went that way,” she said.  “I seen her.”

Lulu looked at the clock.  For Monona had pointed toward the railway station.  The twelve-thirty train, which every one took to the city for shopping, would be just about leaving.

“Monona,” said Lulu, “don’t you go out of the yard while I’m gone.  Mother, you keep her—­”

Lulu ran from the house and up the street.  She was in her blue cotton dress, her old shoes, she was hatless and without money.  When she was still two or three blocks from the station, she heard the twelve-thirty “pulling out.”

She ran badly, her ankles in their low, loose shoes continually turning, her arms held taut at her sides.  So she came down the platform, and to the ticket window.  The contained ticket man, wonted to lost trains and perturbed faces, yet actually ceased counting when he saw her: 

“Lenny!  Did Di Deacon take that train?”

“Sure she did,” said Lenny.