I heard Uncle Peabody drive away. I watched him through the open window. I could hear Aunt Deel washing the dishes in the kitchen. I got out of bed very slyly and put on my Sunday clothes. I went to the open window. The sun had just gone over the top of the woods. I would have to hurry to get to the Dunkelbergs' before dark. I crept out on the top of the shed and descended the ladder that leaned against it. I stood a moment listening. The dooryard was covered with shadows and very still. The dog must have gone with Uncle Peabody. I ran through the garden to the road and down it as fast as my bare feet could carry me. In that direction the nearest house was almost a mile away. I remember I was out of breath, and the light growing dim before I got to it. I went on. It seemed to me that I had gone nearly far enough to reach my destination when I heard a buggy coming behind me. "Hello!" a voice called. I turned and looked up at Dug Draper, in a single buggy, dressed in his Sunday suit. "Is it much further to where the Dunkelbergs live?" I asked. "The Dunkelbergs? Who be they?" It seemed to me very strange that he didn't know the Dunkelbergs. "Where Sally Dunkelberg lives." That was a clincher. He laughed and swore and said: "Git in here, boy. I'll take ye there." I got into the buggy, and he struck his horse with the whip and went galloping away in the dusk. "I reckon you're tryin' to git away from that old pup of an aunt," said he. "I don't wonder. I rather live with a she bear." I have omitted and shall omit the oaths and curses with which his talk was flavored. "I'm gittin' out o' this country myself," said he. "It's too pious for me." By and by we passed Rovin' Kate. I could just discern her ragged form by the roadside and called to her. He struck his horse and gave me a rude shake and bade me shut up. It was dark and I felt very cold and began to wish myself home in bed. "Ain't we most to the Dunkelbergs'?" I asked. "No--not yet," he answered. I burst into tears and he hit me a sounding whack in the face with his hand. "No more whimperin'," he shouted. "Do ye hear me?" He hurt me cruelly and I was terribly frightened and covered my face and smothered my cries and was just a little quaking lump of misery. He shook me roughly and shoved me down on the buggy floor and said: "You lay there and keep still; do you hear?" "Yes," I sobbed. I lay shaking with fear and fighting my sorrow and keeping as still as I could with it, until, wearied by the strain, I fell asleep. What an angel of mercy is sleep! Down falls her curtain and away she leads us--delivered! free!--into some magic country where are the things we have lost--perhaps even joy and youth and strength and old friendships.