A tone of indignation crept into the lady’s voice.

“No, mother didn’t send me,” Ellen said, speaking for the first time.

“Then did you run away, dear?” Ellen was silent.  “Oh, if you did, darling, you must tell me where you live, what your father’s name is, and I will take you home.  Tell me, dear.  If it is far, I will get a carriage, and you shall ride home.  Tell me, dear.”

There was an utmost sweetness of maternal persuasion in Cynthia Lennox’s voice; Ellen was swayed by it as a child might have been swayed by the magic pipe of the Pied Piper of Hamelin.  She half yielded to her leading motion, then she remembered.  “No,” she cried out, with a sob of utter desolation.  “No, no.”

“Why not, dear?”

“They don’t want; they don’t want.  No, no!”

“They don’t want you?  Your own father and mother don’t want you?  Darling, what is the matter?” But Ellen was dumb again.  She stood sobbing, with a painful restraint, and pulling futilely from the lady’s persuasive hand.  But it ended in the mastery of the child.  Suddenly Cynthia Lennox gathered her up in her arms under her great fur-lined cloak, and carried her a little farther down the street, then across it to a dwelling-house, one of the very few which had withstood the march of business blocks on this crowded main street of the provincial city.  A few people looked curiously at the lady carrying such a heavy, weeping child, but she met no one whom she knew, and the others looked indifferently away after a second backward stare.  Cynthia Lennox was one to bear herself with such dignity over all jolts of circumstances that she might almost convince others of her own exemption from them.  Her mental bearing disproved the evidence of the senses, and she could have committed a crime with such consummate self-poise and grace as to have held a crowd in abeyance with utter distrust of their own eyes before such unquestioning confidence in the sovereignty of the situation.  Cynthia Lennox had always had her own way except in one respect, and that experience had come to her lately.

Though she was such a slender woman, she seemed to have great strength in her arms, and she bore Ellen easily and as if she had been used to such a burden.  She wrapped her cloak closely around the child.

“Don’t be afraid, darling,” she kept whispering.  Ellen panted in bewilderment, and a terror which was half assuaged by something like fascination.

She was conscious of a soft smother of camphor, in which the fur-lined cloak had lain through the summer, and of that flower odor, which was violets, though she did not know it.  Only the wild American scentless ones had come in little Ellen’s way so far.

She felt herself carried up steps, then a door was thrown open, and a warm breath of air came in her face, and the cloak was tossed back, and she was set softly on the floor.  The hall in which she stood seemed very bright; she blinked and rubbed her eyes.