Dodging
under willow and scrub oak branches she came at last to the faint
outline of an old trail made in the days when the precious timber of the
swamp was guarded by armed men. This path she followed until she reached
a thick clump of bushes. From the debris in the end of a hollow log she
took a key that unlocked the padlock of a large weatherbeaten old box,
inside of which lay several books, a butterfly apparatus, and a small
cracked mirror. The walls were lined thickly with gaudy butterflies,
dragonflies, and moths. She set up the mirror and once more pulling
the ribbon from her hair, she shook the bright mass over her shoulders,
tossing it dry in the sunshine. Then she straightened it, bound it
loosely, and replaced her hat. She tugged vainly at the low brown calico
collar and gazed despairingly at the generous length of the narrow
skirt. She lifted it as she would have cut it if possible. That
disclosed the heavy high leather shoes, at sight of which she seemed
positively ill, and hastily dropped the skirt. She opened the pail,
removed the lunch, wrapped it in the napkin, and placed it in a small
pasteboard box. Locking the case again she hid the key and hurried down
the trail.
She followed it around the north end of the swamp and then entered a
footpath crossing a farm leading in the direction of the spires of the
city to the northeast. Again she climbed a fence and was on the open
road. For an instant she leaned against the fence staring before her,
then turned and looked back.
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