What she had been through during these
past few days had drained out of her physical vigor as well as all
intellectual freshness.
When Cap'n Ira Ball had led the feebly protesting Queen of Sheba
across these empty fields to her intended sacrifice, the two had
made no more dreary picture against the dim dawn than did Sheila
now. She carried the bundle she had made slung over one shoulder by
a length of rope. The spade, ax, and basket balanced her figure on
the other side; she bent forward as she walked and, from a distance,
Prudence herself would have looked no older or more decrepit than
did the girl now leaving the Ball premises.
She did not follow the same course that the captain and Queenie had
followed on that memorable occasion, but took a path that led to a
cart track to the beach behind John-Ed Williams' house. Nobody was
astir anywhere on Wreckers' Head but herself.
In an hour she arrived at the objective point toward which she had
been headed from the first. Why and how she had thought of this
refuge it would be hard to tell. Least of all could Sheila have
explained her reason for coming here. It was in her mind, it was
away from all other human habitations, and she did not think anybody
would have the right to drive her from it.
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