Joe remained sullenly silent.  His mother’s faith was too stalwart for his comprehension.  There was nothing like it in his own soul to interpret it.

“We ‘ll git de secon’-han’ dealah to tek ouah things to-morrer, an’ then we ’ll go away some place, up No’th maybe.”

“Let ’s go to New York,” said Joe.

“New Yo’k?”

They had heard of New York as a place vague and far away, a city that, like Heaven, to them had existed by faith alone.  All the days of their lives they had heard of it, and it seemed to them the centre of all the glory, all the wealth, and all the freedom of the world.  New York.  It had an alluring sound.  Who would know them there?  Who would look down upon them?

“It ‘s a mighty long ways off fu’ me to be sta’tin’ at dis time o’ life.”

“We want to go a long ways off.”

“I wonder what pa would think of it if he was here,” put in Kitty.

“I guess he ‘d think we was doin’ the best we could.”

“Well, den, Joe,” said his mother, her voice trembling with emotion at the daring step they were about to take, “you set down an’ write a lettah to yo’ pa, an’ tell him what we goin’ to do, an’ to-morrer—­to-morrer—­we ’ll sta’t.”

Something akin to joy came into the boy’s heart as he sat down to write the letter.  They had taunted him, had they?  They had scoffed at him.  But he was going where they might never go, and some day he would come back holding his head high and pay them sneer for sneer and jibe for jibe.

The same night the commission was given to the furniture dealer who would take charge of their things and sell them when and for what he could.

From his window the next morning Maurice Oakley watched the wagon emptying the house.  Then he saw Fannie come out and walk about her little garden, followed by her children.  He saw her as she wiped her eyes and led the way to the side gate.

“Well, they ’re gone,” he said to his wife.  “I wonder where they ’re going to live?”

“Oh, some of their people will take them in,” replied Mrs. Oakley languidly.

Despite the fact that his mother carried with her the rest of the money drawn from the bank, Joe had suddenly stepped into the place of the man of the family.  He attended to all the details of their getting away with a promptness that made it seem untrue that he had never been more than thirty miles from his native town.  He was eager and excited.  As the train drew out of the station, he did not look back upon the place which he hated, but Fannie and her daughter let their eyes linger upon it until the last house, the last chimney, and the last spire faded from their sight, and their tears fell and mingled as they were whirled away toward the unknown.

VII

IN NEW YORK