How had she come by this fine sense of justice, this clear sight in so many things, this comprehension of honor and the right of every human soul? She was suddenly a puzzle to herself. Was this the outgrowth of the wild, laughing, merry child, ready for any fun or frolic or mischief, who ran races with boys, and could play ball, climb trees, jump higher fence-rails than any girl, and be proud of it? Yet, were not these things modified in the gymnasium? So she need not blush over it, or be ashamed of the riotous childhood. And why had she protested so strenuously against going in the shoeshop? Where did these curious qualities and contradictions come from? Did she really owe her awakening to Mr. Warfield? Would she have been content in the Mulford groove but for him? Yet all these feelings and desires must have been in her brain, inherited from somewhere. What might not her father demand of her? Perhaps he was an invalid, and even now she, with aims and purposes settled on a higher plane, might be compelled to spend years of waiting in which there would be no pleasure, no satisfaction. Could she do it? Had he the right to ask it? She was coming nearer and nearer to the momentous decision. Oh, _was_ she leaving the dear, bright, fascinating schooldays behind her, the friends of girlhood, the ambitious climbing where it seemed almost as if one had winged feet, the delightful life with its discussions, its shaping of tastes, its comparison of heroes, when they almost quarreled, each being so eager and confident of her own, the lovely walks, unearthing the secrets of nature growths, the pretty, touching confidences so much to girls, the expansion everywhere; two splendid, joyous years of improvement, draining the real secrets of knowledge to help explain the mysteries of life,--was it all over? They were coming nearer to all the Hopes. A hard little smile settled about her lips. How queer they should have called it Hope, this dead and alive place, where hope could be so easily crushed? Would she abandon hope when she entered? They steamed into the station, backed a little for some cause, then came forward again. She was on the off-side so she need not look out of the window. She waited for the small procession to pass out of the aisle, then she picked up her satchel and her precious box. Mr. Warfield stood watching, and her heart beat more freely. He took her satchel when the conductor had helped her down, and studied her face eagerly. "I began to wonder if you were on the train. Are you tired? It is a long journey." The friendly voice seemed to restore her. "Not especially tired," she answered slowly. They walked on in silence, but a question trembled about her lips. "Were you tremendously surprised? Of course, one couldn't give particulars in a telegram." "Why--yes, after believing him dead all these years. Is he--is he well?" That was not what she wanted to ask.