“No.  You have neither the power to detain nor to expel me.  I shall leave here immediately, and you need not attempt to coerce me; for, if you do, I will acquaint Dr. Hartwell with the whole affair, as soon as he comes, or when I see him.  I am going for my clothes; not those you so reluctantly had made, but the old garments I wore when I worked for my bread.”  She shook off the detaining hand, and went up to her room.  Harriet had already lighted her lamp, and, as she entered the door, the rays fell brightly on the picture she had learned to love so well.  Now she looked at it through scalding tears, and, to her excited fancy, the smile seemed to have faded from the lips of Hope, and the valley looked more dreary, and the pilgrims more desolate and miserable.  She turned from it, and, taking off the clothes she wore, dressed herself in the humble apparel of former days.  The old trunk was scarcely worth keeping, save as a relic; and folding up the clothes and books into as small a bundle as possible, she took it in her arms and descended the steps.  She wished very much to tell Harriet good-by, and thank her for her unvarying kindness; and now, on the eve of her departure, she remembered the words whispered during her illness, and the offer of assistance when she “got into trouble,” as Harriet phrased it; but, dreading to meet Mrs. Chilton again, she hurried down the hall, and left the house.  The friendly stars looked kindly down upon the orphan, as she crossed the common, and proceeded toward the asylum, and raising her eyes to the jeweled dome, the solemn beauty of the night hushed the wild tumult in her heart, and she seemed to hear the words pronounced from the skyey depths:  “Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end.”  Gradually, the results of the step she had taken obtruded themselves before her, and with a keen pang of pain and grief came the thought, “What will Dr. Hartwell think of me?” All his kindness during the time she had passed beneath his roof—­his genial tones; his soft, caressing touch on her head; his rare, but gentle smile; his constant care for her comfort and happiness—­all rushed like lightning over her mind, and made the hot tears gush over her face.  Mrs. Chilton would, of course, offer him some plausible solution of her sudden departure.  He would think her ungrateful, and grow indifferent to her welfare or fate.  Yet hope whispered, “He will suspect the truth; he must know his sister’s nature; he will not blame me.”  But all this was in the cloudy realm of conjecture, and the stern realities of her position weighed heavily on her heart.  Through Dr. Hartwell, who called to explain her sudden disappearance, Mrs. Martin had sent her the eighteen dollars due for three months’ service, and this little sum was all that she possessed.  As she walked on, pondering the many difficulties which attended the darling project of educating herself thoroughly, the lights of the asylum greeted her, and it was with a painful sense of desolation that she mounted the