Madeleine didn’t deny that. “And if you come further there’s no telling _when_ you’ll get out. It will be worse going back against the tide.” But Madeleine hesitated, with harassed face. “I’d much rather you went now,” Hildegarde urged, taking her suit-case from her friend. “Good-by.” Madeleine clung to her with filling eyes. “I _hate_ leaving you.” Hildegarde kissed her. “Good-by, dear. And thank you a thousand times.” In the act of going, Madeleine whispered, “Oh, I _hope_ nothing will happen to you. But I’m frightened to death. Good-by. Oh _dear_!” And that was the last of the old familiar life. * * * * * As slowly Hildegarde got herself and her suit-case through the crowd, it was borne in upon her that perhaps she had been wrong to insist that neither of her brothers should come and see her off, as each had nobly suggested, in spite of their unwavering opposition to the enterprise. She had made a point of their trusting her “to do it alone.” Besides, she wasn’t alone. In every letter she flourished the Blumpittys. Where were those Blumpittys now? No sign of them since yesterday. Anyhow, she had prevented the boys from coming. Her fear, not of course formulated to them, had been that if they came, somehow, at the last moment they would try to prevent her going. Well—she looked about—they probably would. She pressed on, inwardly exulting, outwardly modest and asking pardon. And all the time she kept a sharp lookout, as if, in spite of everything, she was expecting some one. A Blumpitty? Not a bit of it. * * * * * “It’s no use,” said a red-faced man, with a wheezy voice, “not a _bit_ o’ use yer tryin’ to get through yere.” “There would be,” said the young lady, “if you helped me a little.” That was different. But, “Ye’ll only get to stand a yard or two further on till nine o’clock. They wouldn’t open them gates fur President McKinley.” “I want to see if my baggage got here all right. I sent it hours and hours ago.” “Same bright idear’s occurred to the rest of us,” said a sharp-faced youth. But they let the young lady pass. And in the uncertain light they looked after the tall, striking figure, dressed in close-fitting dark green, wearing a perfectly plain green felt hat, which was somehow more distinguishable and more distinguished set upon a head like that than if it had been furbelowed after the fashion of the other feminine headgear that flowered and feathered in the throng. Public opinion would have set her down as “stuck up,” from the way she carried herself, had it not been for something too gentle in the face to support that view. The delicately molded chin, with the end softly turned up, gave an almost childish look to the face, and the long-lashed eyes, at once eager and abstracted, why were they always looking, looking? “Lost her party, I guess.”