Mrs. Maitland looked as uncomfortable as they did. She wondered
what to do next. How much simpler a furnace was than a child!
"Well," she said, "that's all--at present"; it had suddenly
occurred to her that apprehension was a good thing; "_at
present_," she repeated darkly; "and Blair, remember; thieves
go to hell." She watched them with perplexed eyes as they hurried
out of the room; just as they reached the door she called:
"Blair!"

The child stopped short in his tracks and quivered.

"Come here." He came, slowly, his very feet showing his
reluctance. "Blair," she said--in her effort to speak gently her
voice grated; she put out her hand as if to draw him to her, but
the child shivered and moved aside. Mrs. Maitland looked at him
dumbly; then bent toward him, and her hands, hanging between her
knees, opened and closed, and even half stretched out as if in
inarticulate entreaty. Nannie, in the doorway, sobbing under her
breath, watched with frightened, uncomprehending eyes. "My son,"
Sarah Maitland said, with as much mildness as her loud voice
could express, "what did you mean to do when you ran away?" She
smiled, but he would not meet her eyes. "Tell me, my boy, why did
you run away?"

Blair tried to speak, cleared his throat, and blurted out four
husky words: "Don't like it here."

"Don't like what? Your home?"