The Prodigal Imp
laugh, or worse than that, prevent his going. So he walked out of the house and down the path and out of the gate.
Good-by! Good-by! He almost forgave them in the sorrow and grandeur of the moment.
Suddenly a voice from the farther hammock:
"Where you going, Imp? After the kittens?" And then a chuckle—low, suppressed, but still a chuckle.
The heart of the Imp hardened. He would never come back—never! He strode on, and made no answer. Kittens, forsooth! As he passed by the house where the kittens lived he looked the other way.
It was half a mile to the station, and the Imp took the longest way, to avoid meeting friends or relatives who might be curious. He had never been in a station alone, and his heart thumped as he turned the brass knob and entered.
The New York express had just thundered in and stood waiting for its passengers; but they were very few, for this was too late an hour for the business men and it was too warm a day for shoppers. Still, one man was getting a ticket in a hurry, and the Imp guessed that he was going
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