And as she thought of that, her spirit revolted. She had not mimicked the lady’s manner. She had simply tried to do as she was told, and she would not be punished for it! A great resolve came to her, so great that she could scarcely formulate it to herself. But, prompted by her indomitable Irish will-power, and urged on by her outraged sense of justice, she rose slowly from her bed, and, moving softly about the room, began to dress herself. The first touches of dawn gave her just light enough to distinguish the larger objects in the room, and by the time she was fully dressed she could see almost clearly. She had put on the traveling-suit she had worn from Boston, and carried her small satchel, leaving her trunk partly unpacked. She could send for her clothes afterward, or she did not care if she never saw them again. What was the use of a fortune if it didn’t enable one to run away from a terrible place without worrying about one’s clothes? She glanced at sleeping Madeleine, and then, on an impulse, she wrote a hurried note, which she pinned to her own pillow: Dear Madeleine: I did not mimic the lady, and I do not wish to be punished for what I didn’t do. Also, I do not like the school, and I am going home. Elizabeth McGuire. P. S. You may keep my bangle to remember me by. It was the sight of the bangle still on Madeleine’s wrist that prompted this postscript, and then, taking her satchel, Betty softly opened the door and closed it behind her. The hall was almost dark, and Betty had no notion how she was to get out of the house, but at least she meant to try in every possible way. The large front door was so firmly fastened with chains and heavy bolts that she didn’t even attempt to open that, but she remembered the great window in the drawing-room. She easily unfastened one of those long French windows opening on the veranda, and in a moment was walking rapidly down the drive. It was a long walk to the railroad station, but the way was unmistakable, and Betty trudged on, her heart growing lighter at every step. The sun was shining brightly when she reached the station, and the ticket-agent told her a train for Boston would stop there at a quarter before eight. It was nearly that then, and Betty bought her ticket, and hoped fervently she could get away before any one from the school should follow her. Not that she intended to return with them if they did. She had no thought of running away; she knew only that she could not live at Hillside Manor, so she had left it. The ticket-agent scanned her curiously, but Betty looked perfectly unconcerned, and he saw no occasion to question her. About eleven o’clock she reached Boston. On the journey she had been thinking over the situation, and, though she had no fear of her mother’s displeasure at her return, she knew her Grandmother Irving would be extremely annoyed. Not so, though, her grandfather.