It was hard to say good-bye to her new friends. The children clung to her and Mrs. Jenks invited her to make them a visit when she returned in the spring. “You haven’t been a bit of trouble,” she answered in reply to Hazel’s thanks for her hospitality. “I wish I could keep you over night.” Hazel wished the same in her heart, but she only said good-bye again and returned to the railroad station. “Let me have your check,” Mr. Jenks said. “And have you the money for your ticket?” “Yes,” answered Hazel, and with a feeling of pride, she took the money needed from her leather purse. The business of ticket and trunk accomplished, the two took their seats in the car and were soon moving out into the big world. “It isn’t far now, is it?” asked Hazel when they had traveled for an hour and a half. “No,” her companion replied, “we shall soon be at the station; and then we drive three miles to your grandmother’s.” The station was reached at last, and when they got out Hazel met a colored man whom Mr. Jenks called John, and whom he seemed to know very well. John took the check for Hazel’s trunk, and placed the luggage on the back of his wagon. Then giving the reins to Mr. Jenks, he walked away. “See you right soon,” he called. “I’m to drive you. Jump in,” Mr. Jenks commanded, and Hazel climbed to the seat by his side. It was sunset. There was but one house near the station, and their road led through a sparsely tenanted country. Slender pines stood in the fields, and beyond the sky glowed golden. The air was clear and fragrant, and Hazel found herself drinking in deep breaths. Suddenly from the meadow came a bird’s note, long and sweet and plaintive. Again and again the bird called. “A meadow lark,” Mr. Jenks said. The child pressed her hands together. She felt exquisitely sad, and yet full of awe and wonder. The bird sang on and on from the meadow, and when at length she left it behind, the sunset had changed to red and the air was growing chill. “Yes, I have a warm coat,” she said in answer to Mr. Jenks’ look, and she buttoned the blue coat about her neck. Fields and pines and pines and fields. The sunset light, purple now, a single star shining in the west. Then a cabin by the road, and the horse stopped. Hazel trembled as Mr. Jenks lifted her down. The cabin door opened and a tall, large woman came down the steps, put her arm about Hazel and spoke to Mr. Jenks. “You done brought my child,” she said. “Come in and rest yourself.” “Not to-night,” Mr. Jenks answered. “I’m going back to John’s.” He took the trunk from the wagon and placed it on the ground. “Good-night, Hazel. Good-night, Aunt Ellen,” and turning his team, he drove away. The room that Hazel entered was lighted by a kerosene lamp and a fire of logs that sent forth a rich, yellow flame. Her grandmother helped the child take off her hat and coat, and then, sitting on a low chair by the blaze, drew the little girl toward her.