But she knew that this seclusion could not last—­that she must meet this first and great emergency of her life in some other way.  From the strong wish to obtain safety in separation, a plan to bring it about gradually took form in her mind.  She must escape, either to live or to die, before her secret became known; and in casting about for the means, she at last thought of a family who had been the kindest of neighbors in the village where her mother had died.  Mr. Wayland and his wife had been the truest and most sympathetic of friends to the widow and her orphan children, and Madge felt that she could be at home with them.  Mrs. Wayland’s prolonged ill-health had induced her husband to try, in her behalf, the remedy of an entire change of air and climate.  Therefore they had removed, some years before, to Santa Barbara, on the Pacific coast.  The signal success of the experiment now kindled a glimmer of hope in poor Madge.  That remote city certainly secured the first requisites—­separation and distance—­and the fact that her friend found health and vigor in the semi-tropical resort promised a little for her frail young life.  She had few fears that her old friends would not welcome her, and she was in a position to entail no burdens, even though she should remain an invalid.

The practical question was, How should she get there?  But the more she thought upon the plan the more attractive it grew.  The situation seemed so desperate that she was ready for a desperate remedy.  To remain weak, helpless, and in perpetual dread was impossible.

Her mind also was clear and strong enough for self-arraignment, and in bitterness she partially condemned herself that she had lost her chance for happiness.  Her conscience had often troubled her that she had given up so weakly to the habit of invalidism, but she had never had sufficient motive for the vigorous and sustained effort essential to overcome it.  Indeed, her frailty had seemed a claim upon Graydon, and made it more natural for him to pet her.  Now that she was thinking deeply, she was compelled to admit that her ill health was to some extent her fault as well as her misfortune.  Circumstances, natural indolence, and her sister’s extreme indulgence had brought about a condition of life that propagated itself.  One languid day was the parent of another, it was so much easier to dawdle than to act.  Thus she had lost her opportunity.  If he had won health, even Graydon said it would have brought her beauty.  She might have secured his admiration, respect, and even love, instead of his pity.  What could be more absurd than to imagine that he could give aught else to one like herself?  “Oh, what a blind fool I have been!” she moaned—­“blind to the wants of my own heart, blind to the truth that a man needs a strong, genial companion, and not a dependent shadow.”

Graydon’s sudden departure took from her project many obstacles and embarrassments.  She was not afraid of her sister or her remonstrances, and felt that she could convince Mr. Muir that the change gave the best promise for the future.  Graydon’s objections would have been hard to meet.  He might have been led to guess her motive or insist on being her escort.  Now it was merely a question of gaining sufficient strength for the journey and of being resolute.