said the prayer over once more, slowly, then paused a moment, and added:
"Our Father, hide him from trouble. Hide George Trescott Benedict. And
hide me, please, too."

Then she mounted her horse, and went on her way.

It was a long and weary way. It reached over mountains and through
valleys, across winding, turbulent streams and broad rivers that had few
bridges. The rivers twice led her further south than she meant to go, in
her ignorance. She had always felt that Philadelphia was straight ahead
east, as straight as one could go to the heart of the sun.

Night after night she lay down in strange homes, some poorer and more
forlorn than others; and day after day she took up her lonely travel
again.

Gradually, as the days lengthened, and mountains piled themselves behind
her, and rivers stretched like barriers between, she grew less and less to
dread her pursuers, and more and more to look forward to the future. It
seemed so long a way! Would it never end?

Once she asked a man whether he knew where Philadelphia was. She had been
travelling then for weeks, and thought she must be almost there. But he
said "Philadelphia? O, Philadelphia is in the East. That's a long way off.
I saw a man once who came from there."

She set her firm little chin then, and travelled on. Her clothes were much
worn, and her skin was brown as a berry. The horse plodded on with a
dejected air. He would have liked to stop at a number of places they
passed, and remain for life, what there was left of it; but he obediently