It was strange this idea had not entered her mind before. It had never seemed to her possible that she could go back. But now the spectre of death had made her see things in a different light. She wanted to get back to the greenness and the coolness of the country, and, most of all, she wanted to know if Charles was living and was well. After that, it did not matter what became of her; but now she knew she was going back, and she was going at once—in the morning. She went down to tell the old lady her purpose, and after that she slept. The next morning she gathered up her few belongings and took the boat for Albany. She had no settled purpose of where she would go after reaching her objective point. She did not know the name of the town where Charles lived. Strangely enough, it had never been mentioned in her hearing, and she had not thought to ask. She was beginning to feel as if she must have been half asleep when a good many important events in her life happened. Was she half asleep now also, she wondered idly? As they passed the old school of Friend Ruth, Dawn looked out hungrily and longed inexpressibly to be a girl again, studying her lessons and knowing little of the hardness of life. When the boat reached Albany she took the first stagecoach that appeared, without asking where it went. Her money was almost gone, but she paid the fare without a pang. What did anything matter, now that she was out of New York? Everywhere the talk was of the cholera, and her heart grew sick as she heard the details of the dread disease, and long, minute descriptions of how best to nurse it. The stage-coach reached a pretty village late in the afternoon, and Dawn left it, to take a walk and rest herself from the long sitting. She had but a few dollars left. Perhaps she ought not to use any more for fare, but stay where she was if she liked it, or walk farther. She did not feel like eating anything, so she grasped her little bundle of well-worn garments, and walked down the village street. There was a white church with a wide porch, and stairs in front, leading to the gallery. At the side was the graveyard, its wicket gate shaded by a great weeping willow. Just inside was a seat under the tree. Dawn tried the gate and found it unlatched, and she went in and wandered about among the graves, reading here and there a name idly, and wondering how it would seem to lie down and sleep in that quiet resting place. Deep in the centre, so far from the street that she could not be seen, she sank in the grass at the foot of a green mound, and laid her face down upon the blossoming myrtle. How nice it would be if this were a great, free inn where strangers might come and lie down, and the servants would bring each one a green blanket for covering, and a white stone at the head of his pillow, and let him sleep in peace and quietness forever. She was so weary, so weary, body and soul.