"No," said Maria, and she ran on towards the station. "Come home with me to my mother," said Wollaston, pleadingly, but a little timidly. A girl in such a nervous strait as this was a new experience for him. "She can go home with me," said Gladys. "My mother's a heap better than Ida Slome. Say, M'ria, all them things you said was true, but land! how did you darse?" Maria made no reply. She kept on. "Say, M'ria, you don't mean you're goin' to New York?" said Gladys. "Yes, I am. I am going to find my little sister." "My!" said Gladys. "Now, Maria, don't you think you had better go home with me, and see mother?" Wollaston said again. But Maria seemed deaf. In fact, she heard nothing but the sound of the approaching New York train. She ran like a wild thing, her little, slim legs skimming the ground like a bird's, almost as if assisted by wings. When the train reached the station, Maria climbed in, Wollaston and Gladys after her. Neither Wollaston nor Gladys had the slightest premeditation in the matter; they were fairly swept along by the emotion of their companion. When the train had fairly started, Gladys, who had seated herself beside Maria, while Wollaston was in the seat behind them, heaved a deep sigh of bewilderment and terror. "My!" said she. Wollaston also looked pale and bewildered. He was only a boy, and had never been thrown much upon his own responsibility. All that had been uppermost in his mind was the consideration that Maria could not be stopped, and she must not go alone to New York. But he did not know what to think of it all. He felt chaotic. The first thing which seemed to precipitate his mentality into anything like clearness was the entrance of the conductor. Then he thought instinctively about money. Although still a boy, money as a prime factor was already firmly established in his mind. He reflected with dismay that he had only his Wardway tickets, and about three dollars beside. It was now dark. The vaguest visions of what they were to do in New York were in his head. The fare to New York was a little over a dollar; he had only enough to take them all in, then what next? He took out his pocket-book, but Gladys looked around quickly. "She's got a whole book of tickets," she said. However, Wollaston, who was proud, started to pay the conductor, but he had reached Maria first, and she had said "Three," peremptorily. Then she handed the book to Wollaston, with the grim little ghost of a smile. "You please keep this," said she. "I haven't got any pocket." Wollaston was so bewildered that the possession of pockets seemed instantly to restore his self-respect. He felt decidedly more at his ease when he had Maria's ticket-book in his innermost pocket. Then she gave him her purse also. "I wish you would please take this," said she. "There are ten dollars in it, and I haven't any pocket." Wollaston took that.