ON THE TRAIL

There was but a single idea in Sheila Macklin’s mind when she left those three people in the kitchen and mounted to her room.  Indeed, there was scarcely left to the sadly distracted girl another sane thought.

She must leave the house before she could be further questioned.  She hoped that she had said enough to exonerate Tunis.  If she said more, it might be to raise some doubt in the minds of Cap’n Ira and Prudence as to Tunis’ ignorance of her true reputation.  She must escape any cross-examination—­on that or any other topic.

She believed that the captain of the Seamew possessed sufficient caution to keep secret the particulars of their first meeting until he had heard from the old people the few false details she had left in their minds.  She had done all she could to make Tunis’ reputation secure in the eyes of those who must know any particulars of his connection with her.  She had kept her vow to the dead woman whom the young shipmaster had, throughout his life, so revered—­his mother.

She did not light her bedroom lamp until she knew by the sounds from below that the family had retired for the night.  Then, stepping softly, she went over her small possessions and made a bundle of those which she had brought with her when she came from Boston.  The articles of apparel purchased with money given her by the Balls she left in the closet or in the bureau drawers.

This done, she did not lie down on the bed, but sat by the north window staring out into the starlit dark.  There was no lamp to watch in the window of Latham’s Folly to-night.  Tunis was far away.  Had she been prepared for this unexpected catastrophe, she would have been far, far away from Wreckers’ Head before Tunis returned.

As it chanced, she possessed very little money—­scarcely more than enough to take her to Paulmouth.  There she would be no better off than she was at Big Wreck Cove.  Sheila was not, in truth, quite accountable for her actions at this time.  To get away from the Ball house was her only really clear thought.  What followed must fall as fate directed.

At the first faint gleam of dawn in the sky, and as the distant stars paled and disappeared, the girl crept down the stairs with her bundle, her shoes in her hand, and went out by the kitchen door.  She heard only the deep breathing of the old captain from across the sitting room and now and then the sobbing breath of Prudence, like the breathing of a hurt child that has fallen asleep in pain and half wakes to a realization of it.

As she turned to close the outer door softly behind her, the girl’s heart throbbed in response to the old woman’s sorrow.  While she sat on the bench to lace her shoes the cat, old Tabby, came rubbing and purring about her skirts.  Muffled, as though from a great distance, a rooster vented a questioning crow as though he doubted that it was yet time to announce the birth of another day.