Mrs. Brady sat down in her rocking-chair in despair for full five minutes

after she had watched the reprehensible girl go down the street. She had

not been so completely beaten since the day when her own Bessie left the

house and went away to a wild West to die in her own time and way. The

grandmother shed a few tears. This girl was like her own Bessie, and she

could not help loving her, though there was a streak of something else

about her that made her seem above them all; and that was hard to bear. It

must be the Bailey streak, of course. Mrs. Brady did not admire the

Baileys, but she was obliged to reverence them.

If she had watched or followed Elizabeth, she would have been still more

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horrified. The girl went straight to the corner grocery, and demanded her

own horse, handing back to the man the dollar he had paid her last

Saturday night, and saying she had need of the horse at once. After some

parley, in which she showed her ability to stand her own ground, the boy

unhitched the horse from the wagon, and got her own old saddle for her

from the stable. Then Elizabeth mounted her horse and rode away to

Rittenhouse Square.




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