The Princess had not intended that she should go in the wagon. Not alone. She knew it was bad for her, the life she had been living in the last years. She saw no way to escape the end but the end. But, oh, she needed a break from that sort of thing. It seemed best that she should--even if she did not get back to the manor. After all, she would do well enough until--what time she found herself out of a situation. She needed a job, a place, some one to look after her. And perhaps she could find the old man, the one who had said he was called Joseph. It would be like a miracle, to hear of him here--or anywhere in America. Her eyes grew tender and warm as she thought of him, thinking of her old life with him. She went down the lane at once. She passed the orchard gate, approached the stile. She saw that some one had left a lantern on the ground, with a candle inside it, which was so placed that a little puff of smoke would keep the lantern lit. The Princess climbed the stile, carrying a bundle which might have been a basket, a bag, or a box. She crossed the road to the barn, stepped into the shadow of the haystack, and began to descend the runway. She was not far into it when she came upon the trap in the corner and discovered that this was the one she had meant to ride in. It was a plain thing, with wooden wheels. It could be covered with the blanket she carried, and it had no high seat, nor back, nor head. The Princess glanced about in all directions. There was no one to watch her. She pulled the blanket over the trap, dropped the bundle in behind it, and then she got into the high seat, and closed the door, making it a small booth. She made herself comfortable, and began to think about the old man, the one they called Joseph, and she, with her small, dainty chin, and her little, delicate hands, looking as if she had never handled work. It did not seem fair. And Joseph was still in the orchard. He had not returned to the manor-house when the Princess went up the hill, nor when the wagons started down. He was beginning to wonder what had become of her. He did not believe she had gone to visit somebody else. And so it was that as he went along he looked into the eyes of many a country woman, as his long, lean legs took him down the hill. He went a long way. He went into town to look up the name of a village, and up the river--and back to the village where he had seen the Princess first. She was not there, of course. But he was not altogether astonished. A person of her kind had every right to change her name, if she thought it would help her. He had had no experience, save that of his own life. He never knew the reason of it, the nature of it. But now he saw that it was part of her nature. When it did not suit her, she changed it. And to tell the truth, Joseph thought it better that she should do so, if she was wise enough. After all, why change what was born in you? He thought she had lost a good deal, having to run away from the manor-house so many years ago, that she must have seen it many times since then. Why should she be so afraid? She should be glad to get home. He did not know that she had not reached home, though he wanted to. He was certain that she was not in the village of any of the last places they had passed. So he came home, and found her in the barn. Chapter II Joseph said nothing to her of the matter of the money, at first, nor did he speak at all of the Princess's visit. He saw that it might be better that she should not be reminded of it. He saw too, after a little while, that his interest in her was gone, and he was glad. He had had a glimpse of what she would be like in the beginning, and he did not like it. He never quite knew the reason of it, but it was his impression that she was not a woman he should have. He was sorry, but he did not feel the same way about her as he had before. She had not come home for some time. There was a letter from the President of the railroad, a letter which had been forwarded from New York. Joseph found the letter, and carried it in to the young lady, who was lying on the sofa in the sitting-room. He had come in to dinner, and gone back, but she had not asked him to come back. And the letter was lying on the table. She picked it up. She read it carefully. "The railroad has never had such a season," said the young lady. "What does this mean? This tells of a business manager who is a wonderful man. But they are still a corporation, I suppose. It says nothing of the interest the President himself has in it. He seems almost anxious. What does it mean?" "How should I know?" replied Joseph. "He has no more to do with it than I have, or you. I have seen him only once, and that was when he came here. I was working in the garden, when they came to the gate. They must have gone in by the carriage entrance, because he accompanied the lady who came out here to see you, and they both went away." "To see me?" "Why, yes. Isn't it strange? When I spoke to the lady she turned her head away, as if she was ashamed to be seen with me." "He certainly never saw her before, or he would not have done it." "I thought not. But why would he send the letter here?" "Is it possible he can have forgotten me?" "Forgotten you? Impossible!" exclaimed Joseph. "And he has not seen me in all the years I have been here. He has not seen me even with you." "He cannot have forgotten you." "I don't know. You must have forgotten him. I do not know him. He seems not to know me." "But I should have seen him, if he came here." "You don't remember him very well, then." "I did not speak with him." "You must have been very much preoccupied. But you do not remember him very well." "But why did he send the letter here? Would he send it to you?" "No," said Joseph. "But I may tell you now, and then we can try to find out." "Yes, you had better tell me." "I know the lady who is with him now, and I know the young lady who comes here so often, in the carriage, and has such beautiful clothes. And I know, too, the young lady who comes with her to the station to get you, sometimes, at such an hour, and is so anxious to know when you will come." "Yes, yes, I have known those ladies for some years." "And I think I know the man, who is so proud, and always wears such good clothes, and has never been in the position to be here to see them." "He is her father?" "The young lady says he is her father. He is very good-looking." "Yes." "And rich, as you see. I saw his face when they brought him in." "How did you know he was a man? How did you know he was a rich man?" asked the Princess. "You are not very particular about your company, to invite such an one as that to your house." "I do not like him," said Joseph. "Nor I," replied the Princess. "He does not like me. Why should he like me, when he could make the rich gentleman's daughter his granddaughter, if he wished? And he does not wish it. He wants his money for something else. He is willing to let her have her freedom that she may live as well as he can. But he cannot love her any better than she can love him." "They are alike," said Joseph, "in one thing, that they make the greatest effort to avoid each other. They will not walk, or sit, or talk together in the same room. They come here in the carriage, but they will not come together to the station, and wait on the train. And that is very different from the way your people have of getting along together. Why is it they are so afraid of each other? Is it for the reasons