The old toad suspected me of a repetition of tactics and tore to an unmentionable apartment to outwit me. I saw him leathering past from the shelter of the fowl house and sped once more to the consoling friendliness of the pigs. A motherly old sow enjoyed being scratched, and stood contentedly as a screen while I indulged her.

I could descry unusual motion at the house. Ma came out and about looking for me. Aunt Jane followed, then Pa and Henry. They had a colloquy, after which Pa went to the outhouse, knocked on the door and asked Mr. Grayling if he were ill. He came out and began to rage. I could not hear it all because I had to huddle behind the sow. She thought I wanted a drink, and grunted so loudly that much of the argument was lost; also they went behind the fowl houses and that cut off their voices.

Ma came to the gate and called that tea was ready, and I saw Pa urging Old Grayling to come. He waved his arms like a wind mill and bellowed a little, but soon they went inside together.

Henry came from the kitchen calling softly to me and looking everywhere and saying, “I know where you are.” Now and again he laughed to himself till he shook, which showed that he had no understanding of my feelings. It was coarse and thick-skinned to laugh at such a caricature of LOVE, when he himself was pretending to be in its thrall.

After a while Pa came looking for him, and when they disappeared inside, I said ta-ta to the pigs. Feeding time was approaching, and I meant to stay out all night or until Old Grayling left. I circled to the hayshed where I climbed near the roof and made a warm sweet-smelling nest. Baby mice squeaked, and a lizard visited me, and I must have been there two hours when Pa came for the horse. Old Grayling shook hands all round and drove away at a wild bat. I slid down, took every straw off me, crept around by the buggy shed and sheep yards, and reappeared as if I had come over the hill. Pa was feeding the pigs, who were squealing at being neglected, and he came to meet me.

Pa never said a flaying word to me in his life, no matter how debbil-debbil I may have been. “I’m sorry you have been frightened, my girl,” he said.

I wasn’t frightened. Thunderstorms, mad swaggies, bulls breaking out, fractious horses, bush fires—any of the things that frighten most girls—do not upset me, but things about which they exchange smutty confidences can sicken me all through and drop me in a cauldron of nerves. This was one of them.

Pa inquired how it had begun. I told him of the letter and how I had run away before and how Ma had scolded me for being remiss.

“But we never suspected. If you had confided in your mother all this could have been avoided.”