Elizabeth's idea in taking the horse along with her was to have all her

armor on, as a warrior goes out to meet the foe. If this grandmother

proved impossible, why, then so long as she had life and breath and a

horse she could flee. The world was wide, and the West was still open to

her. She could flee back to the wilderness that gave her breath.

The old horse stopped gravely and disappointedly before the tall,

aristocratic house in Rittenhouse Square. He had hoped that city life was

now to end, and that he and his dear mistress were to travel back to their

beloved prairies. No amount of oats could ever make up to him for his

freedom, and the quiet, and the hills. He had a feeling that he should

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like to go back home and die. He had seen enough of the world.

She fastened the halter to a ring in the sidewalk, which surprised him.

The grocer's boy never fastened him. He looked up questioningly at the

house, but saw no reason why his mistress should go in there. It was not

familiar ground. Koffee and Sons never came up this way.

Elizabeth, as she crossed the sidewalk and mounted the steps before the

formidable carved doors, felt that here was the last hope of finding an

earthly habitation. If this failed her, then there was the desert, and

starvation, and a long, long sleep. But while the echo of the cell still

sounded through the high-ceiled hall there came to her the words: "Let not

your heart be troubled.... In my Father's house are many mansions; if it

were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.... I

will come again and receive you." How sweet that was! Then, even if she

died on the desert, there was a home prepared for her. So much she had

learned in Christian Endeavor meeting.

The stately butler let her in. He eyed her questioningly at first, and

said madam was not up yet; but Elizabeth told him she would wait.

"Is she sick?" asked Elizabeth with a strange constriction about her

heart.

"O no, she is not up yet, miss," said the kind old butler; "she never gets

up before this. You're from Mrs. Sands, I suppose." Poor soul, for once

his butler eyes had been mistaken. He thought she was the little

errand-girl from Madam Bailey's modiste.

"No, I'm just Elizabeth," said the girl, smiling. She felt that this man,

whoever he was, was not against her. He was old, and he had a kind look.

He still thought she meant she was not the modiste, just her errand-girl.

Her quaint dress and the long braid down her back made her look like a

child.




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