mr. whitford was to be at mrs. blake’s house at one o’clock in the morning. starting at that hour, he would be unlikely to meet travellers on the road, and he would get into winchester well before daylight. he and his passengers were to have an early breakfast with the old quaker who was a friend of the miller and of mr. fairhead. from the quaker’s house they would take the stage for martinsburg. if mrs. blake chanced to meet an acquaintance on the street or in the stage, it was quite natural that she should be going to martinsburg on a visit, attended by her mother’s maid.

nancy was to come over to mrs. blake’s about midnight. when all was still at the mill house, she got up from her pallet, dressed in the dark, and slipped out of the back door, carrying her shoes and stockings in one hand, and in the other an old pillowcase stuffed with her spare clothes and her few belongings.

when she got to the stile, she sat down behind it and put on her shoes. it was the dark of the moon, and anyone crossing the meadow could not easily be recognized. but if she met anyone, the fact that she was wearing her winter shawl and a hat would arouse curiosity. to travel as mrs. blake’s lady’s maid, she must be dressed for town. her hat was an old black turban of mrs. colbert’s. till had put a red feather on it when nancy accompanied her mistress to winchester at easter.

mrs. blake was sitting on her doorstep, waiting, and her house was dark. she drew a sigh of relief when she saw a figure come out of the meadow and cross the road. she met nancy at the gate, took her into the parlour, pulled down the blinds, and lighted a candle.

“now, nancy, here’s my old carpet sack. i’m going to give it to you for your own, and you can pack away in it whatever you’ve got in your bundle there. from now on we must look spruce, like we was going visiting. i’m glad you’ve got a feather in your hat. it’s real becoming to you, and it was a good hat in the first place, when mother got it. i see you’ve brought along one of the old reticules. that will be handy to carry the letters i’ve written out for you to show to the quaker folks, and maybe to the railroad men, telling how you’re a deserving girl and i stand behind you. but when i give you your money, in martinsburg, you must put it in your stockings. never let it off your body.”

“oh, miz’ blake, the reticule ain’t mine! miss sapphy give it to me yisterday, with three pairs a-her good silk stockings for me to darn. i did mean to darn ’em today, but some way i jist couldn’t git down to it. i been kind-a flighty in the haid like. i’ll mend ’em as soon as i git there, an’ send ’em back by stage, or somehow.” nancy was nervously packing the carpetbag as she spoke.

mrs. blake glanced up, and then stepped quickly into the kitchen to get command of herself. she thought how vague, even to her, was this “there” that nancy spoke of — there was canada, wasn’t it? mrs. blake herself had never been farther north than baltimore. she had always thought of boston as very, very far north. and montreal was away, away longer off than boston. and nancy spoke of sending things back by stage! for a moment she felt her courage sink.

when she returned to the parlour, she set about straightening the tidies on the chairs, speaking over her shoulder in a matter-of-fact tone. “you better leave your darning right here. i’ll mend ’em up neatly and send ’em over. things often get lost on the stage. listen! there’s mr. whitford for sure. he’s stopped his horses at our gate. i’ll get my things on.”

a few minutes later mrs. blake walked out of her door in her sunday best, even to black gloves, and nancy walked behind her, carrying the carpet sack. mr. whitford helped them into the back of his wagon and then untied his horses. very soon the team splashed through back creek. mrs. blake had a moment of apprehension and glanced at nancy. but the girl seemed worn out and dulled by the day’s excitement; her head drooped forward on her knees as if she were dozing. it was not until they were passing the old elliot place, and a jolt over a limestone ledge threw her chair to one side, that she wakened up.

the houses along the road were all dark. the first lighted windows were in the disreputable tavern near hoag creek, a place where bad men got together: moonshiners and sheep-stealers and fist-fighters who wore brass knuckles in a fight, drank bad whisky, and threw dice and told dirty stories about decent folk until daybreak. the sound of horses’ hoofs on the road at this late hour brought the revellers reeling and shouting out into the road.

“hold on, stranger, give us a ride up the gap! who be ye? issa damned gov’ment officer! pull him in an’ fill him up, fellers. he’s after moonshiners, an’ we’ll show him some.”

“we’ll give him a whole bellyful-a moonshine!”

bill hooker, who had only one eye and bragged he had never cut his hair, caught the horses by the bits, but they kicked at him, and he fell in the road.

“drag him out,” whitford called, “and go back where you came from. i’m whitford, of back creek, and i’m carrying a coffin home.”

the rowdies let out a spiritless yell or two, and stumbled back toward the tavern.

“hope you wasn’t scared, mrs. blake,” said whitford. “it’s funny; those fellows don’t blink an eye at murder, but they don’t like to interfere with a corpse.”