“Yes, to-night,” replied the child.  “To-morrow night will be too late.  Nothing but flight can save us.  Up!”

The old man arose, his forehead bedewed with the cold sweat of fear, and bending before the child, as if she had been an angel messenger sent to lead him where she would, made ready to follow her.  She took him by the hand and led him on.  She took him to her own chamber, and, still holding him by the hand, as if she feared to lose him for an instant, gathered together the little stock she had, and hung her basket on her arm.  The old man took his wallet from her hands, his staff too, and then she led him forth.

Through the streets their trembling feet passed quickly, and at last the child looked back upon the sleeping town, on the far-off river, on the distant hills; and as she did so, she clasped the hand she held less firmly, and bursting into tears, fell upon the old man’s neck.  Her momentary weakness passed, she again summoned the resolution to keep steadily in view the one idea that they were flying from disgrace and crime, and that her grandfather’s preservation depended solely on her firmness.  While he, subdued and abashed, seemed to shrink and cower down before her, the child herself was sensible of a new feeling within her which elevated her nature, and inspired her with an energy and confidence she had never known.  “I have saved him,” she thought, “in all distresses and dangers I will remember that.”

At any other time the recollection of having deserted the friend who had shown them so much homely kindness, without a word of justification, would have filled her with sorrow and regret.  But now, all other considerations were lost in the new uncertainties and anxieties, and in the desperation of their condition.

In the pale moonlight, which lent a wanness of its own to the delicate face where thoughtful care already mingled with a winning grace and loveliness of youth, the too bright eye, the spiritual head, the lips that pressed each other with such high resolve and courage of the heart, the slight figure, firm in its bearing, and yet so very weak, told their silent tale; but told it only to the wind that rustled by.  The night crept on apace, the moon went down and when the sun had climbed into the sky, and there was warmth in its cheerful beams, they laid them down to sleep upon a bank hard by some water.

But Nell retained her grasp upon the old man’s arm, and long after he was slumbering soundly, watched him with untiring eyes.  Fatigue stole over her at last; her grasp relaxed, and they slept side by side.  A confusion of voices, mingling with her dreams, awoke her, and she discovered a man of rough appearance standing over her, while his companions were looking on from a canal-boat which had come close to the bank while she was sleeping.  The man spoke to Nell, asking what was the matter, and where she and her grandfather were going.  Nell faltered, pointing at hazard toward the west—­and upon the man inquiring if she meant a certain town which he named, Nell, to avoid more questioning, said “Yes, that was the place.”  After asking some other questions, he mounted one of the horses towing the boat, which at once went on.  Presently it stopped again, and the man beckoned to Nell:  “You may go with us if you like,” he said.  “We’re going to the same place.”