Sally had her own way. In the face of abuse, in the face of reproach,
she packed her leather trunk. All those little idols of sentiment,
the clock that ticked on her mantelshelf, the pictures that hung on
the walls; the books she had collected, even the copy of Browning
that she did not understand--they all were stowed away into the
leather trunk. She went out of the house, she went out of the home
as a moth flies out of a darkened room, and you know that unless you
kindle a light to lure it back, it will never return. They knew they
could never kindle the light. They knew she would never come back.
What love had they to offer as an inducement? And no love of her
relations is an inducement to the woman who is seeking her own.

Only the Rev. Samuel shed tears over her. She came into his study
one morning after breakfast to say good-bye. He was writing a new
sermon for the season of Easter, and his mind was raking up the past
as a man unearths some buried thing that the mould has rotted.

The sunlight was pouring in through the window as he bent over his
desk nursing thoughts that were vermin in his brain.

"You're going, Sally?" he said.

"Yes, father."

He stood up from his chair and looked at her--looked her up and down
as though he wished the sight of her to last in his memory for the
rest of his life.

"What time do you get to London?"