Mrs. Muir’s opposition was not so great as Madge had feared, and Mr. Muir even approved of the plan.  The shrewd merchant’s judgment was usually correct on all practical matters, and he believed that Madge’s best chance was in a radical change.  He saw that his wife’s indulgence tended to confirm her sister’s lack of energy, and that it would be best for Madge to spend the next few years with one who had regained her health by wise endeavor.  Mrs. Muir soon saw everything as her husband viewed it, and the young girl prepared for a new world and a new life.

It was indeed a wise decision.  There could be no more aimless drifting and brooding.  A telegram to Mr. Wayland brought immediate acquiescence in the project, which was arranged more in detail by letters.  Madge strove in every possible way to fit herself for the journey, and was surprised at her success.  Better than all tonics was the diversion of her thoughts, the prospect of change, the necessity for action.  In her thoughtful prudence she even satisfied Mrs. Muir’s solicitude, for the young girl realized more fully every day how much depended upon her plan.  It seemed to her that there could be no greater misfortune than to become so ill again that in helplessness she must await Graydon’s return.  Therefore, every faculty of mind, every power of body, was exerted to accomplish her purpose; and, while her farewell to her sister and Mr. Muir was tender and full of gratitude, the consciousness of escape was uppermost in her mind.  An elderly friend of Mr. Muir would be her escort to San Francisco, and in that city Mr. Wayland was to meet her.

She arrived safely at her far-distant home, greatly worn and exhausted indeed, but calm in mind from a sense of security.  Mrs. Wayland greeted her with her old-time cordiality, and gave herself heartily to the task of rallying the frail girl into health.

During the days of absolute rest which followed the journey, Madge’s thoughts were busy.  The width of the continent would separate her from the past and those associated with it.  Both the breadth of the continent and the ocean were between her and him from whom she had fled; yet he was ever present to her imagination.  In this respect the intervening miles counted for nothing.  She had not hoped that they would.  She could conceive of no plan of life that left him out, yet she felt that she must have some object to look forward to, some motive for action.  The spirit she had recently shown in taking so decisive a step proved her to possess a latent force of character of which she herself had not been conscious.  She would not sit down to dream and brood away the future.  She could never hope for Graydon Muir’s love.  He would soon return to New York, and the idea that Miss Wildmere or any other girl would remain cold to his suit was preposterous.  Yet if she lived she must meet Graydon again, and she now felt that she would live.  The decision she had manifested at the crisis of her life was kindling her nature.  She was conscious of a growing inclination to prove to Graydon that she was neither “weak nor lackadaisical.”  The reproach of these, his words, haunted her and rankled in her memory.  If she could only make him respect her—­if she could only win such a look of admiration as she had seen upon his face when he first recognized Miss Wildmere at the party, it would be a triumph indeed.