edness of her persistence. But in spite of everything, Reba dragged down her little humpbacked trunk from the third floor, and grimly set about putting her things into it. The same determination that she had practiced for so many years in her pursuit of resignation stood stanchly by her in her new quest. Timid and fearful as she was by nature, she was strong in her capacity for suffering for what she believed to be right.
And she did suffer. Many a time, during the fortnight that preceded Reba's departure, her heart was near the breaking-point. She could not have borne many more days of contest. She longed for one kind word—one kind look before she left the old familiar scenes. She passionately desired the good omen of one God-be-with-you-till-we-meet-again. But she didn't have it. Even on that last night, when she sought one little expression of goodwill from her own mother, she was refused it.
She had approached her mother's wheel-chair timidly, hopefully. They were alone in the room.
"I'm going away to-morrow, Mother," she had murmured. "Won't you say good-by?"
Her mother had replied accusingly: "If I were well and you were sick, I'd do anything I could not to make you more miserable. You're a selfish girl, I'm afraid, Reba."
The only comfort Reba had during those last days at home was her father's non-committal silence. He expressed himself neither on one side nor the other, but somehow Reba felt that he was not displeased with her—wholly. He was as gruff as ever, and showed no disposition to stand behind her in her single-handed
