“Here, darling,” said Susan.  And what no words could do, the touch of the rough-coated pony did for her; up came the little face, radiant through tears; Georgie clasped his horse again.

“No, ma’am, you mustn’t—­I thank you very kindly, ma’am, but——­” was all that Susan heard before she ran away.

She would do things like that every day of her life, she thought, lying awake in the darkness that night.  Wasn’t it better to do that sort of thing with money than to be a Mary Lou, say, without?  She was going to take a reckless and unwise step now.  Admitted.  But it would be the only one.  And after busy and blameless years everyone must come to see that it had been for the best.

Every detail was arranged now.  She and Stephen had visited the big liner that afternoon; Susan had had her first intoxicating glimpse of the joy of sea-travel, had peeped into the lovely little cabin that was to be her own, had been respectfully treated by the steward as the coming occupant of that cabin.  She had seen her new plaid folded on a couch, her new trunk in place, a great jar of lovely freesia lilies already perfuming the fresh orderliness of the place.

Nothing to do now but to go down to the boat in the morning.  Stephen had both tickets in his pocket-book.  A careful scrutiny of the first-cabin list had assured Susan that no acquaintances of hers were sailing.  If, in the leave-taking crowd, she met someone that she knew, what more natural than that Miss Brown had been delegated by the Saunders family to say good-bye to their charming cousin?  Friends had promised to see Stephen off, but, if Ella appeared at all, it would be but for a moment, and Susan could easily avoid her.  She was not afraid of any mishap.

But three days of the pure, simple old atmosphere had somewhat affected Susan, in spite of herself.  She could much more easily have gone away with Stephen Bocqueraz without this interval.  Life in the Saunders home stimulated whatever she had of recklessness and independence, frivolity and irreverence of law.  She would be admired for this step by the people she had left; she could not think without a heartache of her aunt’s shame and distress.

However there seemed nothing to do now but to go to sleep.  Susan’s last thought was that she had not taken the step yet,—­in so much, at least, she was different from the girls who moved upon blind and passionate impulses.  She could withdraw even now.

The morning broke like many another morning; sunshine and fog battling out-of-doors, laziness and lack of system making it generally characteristic of a Sunday morning within.  Susan went to Church at seven o’clock, because Mary Lou seemed to expect it of her, and because it seemed a good thing to do, and was loitering over her breakfast at half-past-eight, when Mrs. Lancaster came downstairs.

“Any plan for to-day, Sue?” asked her aunt.  Susan jumped nervously.