All these things she loved to think about, and she saw them
pictured in her mind as real as they'd ever been to her when her own
life was centered in them, and her fancy took delight in these secret
joys. It was her home she saw always, the humble "but and ben" with the
primitive conditions of life, the crude amenities, the sweet joys of
simple unaffected people; but it was her home.
One day, Mrs. Ramsay had gone out on an errand that detained her some
time, Mysie seized suddenly again in a more intense form by her desire
to go home, feverishly dressed herself, and hastily scribbling a note of
thanks to her good friend and nurse, she stole out on to the street, a
poor, forlorn, weak girl, but thoroughly determined to go home to where
her heart called her.
Out upon the street, she grew frightened. She did not know anything
about the city, nor in which direction to turn. She had no idea how far
it was to the station. She was helpless and alone, and very much
excited.
A boy passed her, whistling as she had often heard her own brothers
whistling, and hastily calling to him she accosted him thus:
"Could you tell me hoo far it is to the station?"
"Whit station?" asked the boy, and she suddenly remembered it was
Princes Street, and mentioned it.
Pages:
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352