table of the X & Y Road on the station wall, and studied it
thoughtfully. She had resolved to select the place with the most
promising name. Back at the ticket window she patiently waited her turn
in a little stream of people. The woman ahead of her was flourishing a
dainty, embroidered handkerchief, and she wondered idly if it had come
from her counter at Torrey's. If so, why was it not a little white flag
of truce that gave her a right to say "How do you do?" to the woman?
The Talentless One suddenly felt a little lonely.

"Ticket to Placid Pond, please," she said, when her turn came. The very
sound of the peaceful little name gave her courage. Placid Pond! Placid
Pond! Could any place be more indicative of rest? Then she bethought her
of the Wicked Compact, and felt almost impelled to hand back the
ticket--Placid Pond could not be the right place to be bad in!

But it was too late!

"Two-twenty," the ticket man said, monotonously, and she fumbled in her
lean, little purse. To Placid Pond she would go, and, if there were
barns and cornfields and a blue-painted pump--the thrill of expectancy
ran through her veins, and she forgot the Wicked Compact.

The Talentless One had never glided through green places like this
before, between slow, clear little streams, by country children waving
their hats. She had never seen far, splendid reaches of hills,
undulating softly against the sky. Wonder and delight filled her. She
found herself envying the little, brown children who waved their hats.

"It's pretty, ain't it?" a fresh, old voice said in her ear. When she
turned, it was to look into a fresh, old face behind her.