any ears but those of the one person already convinced. But she would
not be shut up in a convent--no, not by fifty aunts and a hundred
step-fathers!

She would go to Him. He would understand. He was the only person who
ever had understood. She would go straight to him and ask him what to
do. He would advise her. He was so clever, so good, so noble. Whatever
he advised would be _right_.

Trembling and in a cold white rage of determination, Betty fastened on
her hat, found her gloves and purse. The mackintosh she remembered had
been left in the shed. She pictured her step-father trampling fiercely
upon it as he told Mr. Vernon what he thought of him. She took her
golf cape.

At the last moment she hesitated. Mr. Vernon would not be idle. What
would he be doing? Suppose he should send a note? Suppose he had
watched Mr. Underwood drive away and should come boldly up and ask for
her? Was it wise to leave the house? But perhaps he would be hanging
about the church yard, or watching from the park for a glimpse of her.
She would at least go out and see.

"I'll leave a farewell letter," she said, "in case I never come back."

She found her little blotting-book--envelopes, but no paper. Of
course! One can't with dignity write cutting farewells on envelopes.
She tore a page from her diary.

"You have driven me to this," she wrote. "I am going away, and in time
I shall try to forgive you all the petty meannesses and cruelties of