afternoon was half spent, it suddenly occurred to her that if she did not
go home she should die. Soldiers had died of homesickness, for she had
heard her father say so. She had not been able to swallow a mouthful of
dinner, and that fact was of itself rather alarming.

"Perhaps I'm going to have the _typo_. Any way, my head aches. Besides,
my papa didn't say I _mustn't_ go home. He said I must finish my visit,
and I _have_. O, I've finished _that_ all up, ever and ever and ever so
long ago."

She and Mandoline went out again to "breathe," Mrs. Rosenberg giving her
daughter a warning glance from the doorway, which meant, "Be watchful,
Mandy!" for the look of fixed despair on the little prisoner's face gave
the woman some anxiety lest she should try to escape.

The unhappy child walked on in silence, twisting a lock of her front
hair, and looking up at the sky. A few soft snow-flakes were dropping out
of the clouds. Every flake seemed to fall on her heart. Winter was
coming. It was a gray, miserable world, and she was left out in the cold.
She remembered she had been happy once, but that was ages ago. It wasn't
likely she should ever smile again; and as for laughter, she knew that
was over with her forever. Susy and Prudy were at home, making book-marks
and cologne mats; _they_ could smile, for they hadn't run away.

"I shouldn't think my mamma'd care if I went in at the back door,"
thought Dotty, meekly. "If she locks me out, I can lie down on the steps
and freeze."

But the question was, how to get away from Mandoline, who had her in
charge like a sharp-eyed sheriff.