The afternoon brought a scare. Miss May herself came for the packages. Suppose! Oh, suppose! Almira barely had time to plump Queeny between the feather beds before Miss May landed in Wally Jim’s skiff. Almira was glad that she had been prompt, and that the string was tied in hard knots. Miss May praised her for being a good little girl, and made her wince by depicting the gladness of that lame child in the mountains when Queeny should arrive. But Almira did not repent for a minute. She even said, “Poor little girl!” with a hard-hearted irony. Miss May puckered her forehead, as she always did when she was thinking. That night Almira tossed and tumbled, unable to sleep. Then the moon rose and sent a straight shaft of light through one of the little square windows on the doll’s face. Almira smothered a scream. One of Queeny’s eyes was asleep, the other wide open, staring at her. She shook her hard, but that eye would not sleep. She held her up, but although the shut eye opened, the open eye shut, giving the effect of a wicked wink. How she longed for dear, blind Botsey! Where was Botsey now? Could she feel, and did she know what had been done? No, Botsey was only a bottle. But _Queeny knew_! And Queeny was watching her with one eye to see what other wicked things were going to happen; and there was Miss May praising her and trusting her, and that little lame girl in the mountains expecting a doll, and getting— Almira could not have called this a protest of conscience, but she knew she was utterly miserable. Furthermore, she realized that Queeny’s ability to bring pride and happiness was gone, and that she herself would always have this something gnawing her inside. But must she? Perhaps it was not too late. Jim would help her. To-morrow she would get him to stay near her mother while she went ashore with Queeny, the glaring Queeny, to Miss May, telling her how bad she had been. Perhaps Number Ten had not gone on, and Botsey could be stopped on her deceitful way. This resolve so comforted Almira that as the moon went down and darkness hid the staring eye, she fell asleep. She was awakened by voices and a motion she knew well. The daylight came broadly through the windows. She heard a clanging and creaking. A sick realization overwhelmed her. They had left the island, they were in the broad bed of the river, skimming away who knew where?—away from Miss May and the chance of making things all right. She dressed herself, asking no questions; but her mother, holding to the arms of her chair, explained: “Your pa thinks he’ll do better off a larger town, so he came in before day and raised sail to get into the current while this good wind’s blowing.”