Elizabeth wanted to study geography.  At least, that was the study Lizzie said would tell her where the Desert of Sahara was.  She wanted to know things, all kinds of things; but Lizzie said such things were only for children, and she didn’t believe they taught such baby studies in a college.  But she would inquire.  It was silly of Bessie to want to know, she thought, and she was half ashamed to ask.  But she would find out.

It was about this time that Elizabeth’s life at the store grew intolerable.

One morning—­it was little more than a week before Christmas—­Elizabeth had been sent to the cellar to get seven little red tin pails and shovels for a woman who wanted them for Christmas gifts for some Sunday-school class.  She had just counted out the requisite number and turned to go up-stairs when she heard some one step near her, and, as she looked up in the dim light, there stood the manager.

“At last I’ve got you alone, Bessie, my dear!” He said it with suave triumph in his tones.  He caught Elizabeth by the wrists, and before she could wrench herself away he had kissed her.

With a scream Elizabeth dropped the seven tin pails and the seven tin shovels, and with one mighty wrench took her hands from his grasp.  Instinctively her hand went to her belt, where were now no pistols.  If one had been there she certainly would have shot him in her horror and fury.  But, as she had no other weapon, she seized a little shovel, and struck him in the face.  Then with the frenzy of the desert back upon her she rushed up the stairs, out through the crowded store, and into the street, hatless and coatless in the cold December air.  The passers-by made way for her, thinking she had been sent out on some hurried errand.

She had left her pocketbook, with its pitifully few nickels for car-fare and lunch, in the cloak-room with her coat and hat.  But she did not stop to think of that.  She was fleeing again, this time on foot, from a man.  She half expected he might pursue her, and make her come back to the hated work in the stifling store with his wicked face moving everywhere above the crowds.  But she turned not to look back.  On over the slushy pavements, under the leaden sky, with a few busy flakes floating about her.

The day seemed pitiless as the world.  Where could she go and what should she do?  There seemed no refuge for her in the wide world.  Instinctively she felt her grandmother would feel that a calamity had befallen them in losing the patronage of the manager of the ten-cent store.  Perhaps Lizzie would get into trouble.  What should she do?

She had reached the corner where she and Lizzie usually took the car for home.  The car was coming now; but she had no hat nor coat, and no money to pay for a ride.  She must walk.  She paused not, but fled on in a steady run, for which her years on the mountain had given her breath.  Three miles it was to Flora Street, and she scarcely slackened her pace after she had settled into that steady half-run, half-walk.  Only at the corner of Flora Street she paused, and allowed herself to glance back once.  No, the manager had not pursued her.  She was safe.  She might go in and tell her grandmother without fearing he would come behind her as soon as her back was turned.